I'm Game
by Sue Shay
Summary: COMPLETE! It's been a strange, mysterious week for the team. Oh, crime in California is the same-old, same-old, but what's up with Boss and Jane? This is rated M for sexual content and violence/language. SORRY-05x16 SPOILER ALERT Chapter 12. Humor throughout.
1. Chapter 1

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

**_I'm Game_** **_by Sue Shay_**

* * *

_Monday afternoon_

Jane was making Cho uncomfortable.

Not that Cho would exhibit it. His favorite show as a child was Jack Webb's Dragnet, and although Sergeant Joe Friday was a fictional character, Cho always considered him the epitome of toughness and self-control so Cho did his best to emulate him. And being the master pusher of other people's personal buttons, Jane provided Cho with very good practice at keeping his shields up and his emotions down.

Now, however, something about Jane was unnerving him. The consultant was just hanging out, standing by the nearby window and casually switching his focus from the view outside to Cho's desk to Lisbon's office.

"Can I help you with something?" Cho asked.

Jane acted startled. "Me? No, I'm fine. Right as rain."

Cho stared a moment. Jane gave his usual showman smile and looked out the window again. Cho shook his head and looked back at the dossier in front of him.

_Strange cat, man._

"Okay, guys, gather 'round," Lisbon said, coming into the bullpen and gesturing to the entire Serious Crime Unit team. "The Governor's last minute appearance this Saturday at the political fundraiser has been cancelled. Looks like we can resume making plans for this weekend."

"Oh, thank God," Van Pelt said under her breath.

Cho automatically looked at Rigsby. He noticed Jane do the same. Rigsby was staring longingly at Van Pelt who was looking back the same way.

_Subtle. They might as well wave the hotel rendezvous reservations over their heads._

"By the way, Lisbon…" Jane said in a bright eager voice as he stepped away from the window towards their boss.

Lisbon stopped and looked back at him. Her expression was harsh. Sorta "Go ahead, I dare ya" in nature. Cho had been seeing that expression a lot today.

Jane's showman smile turned into his 'thanking the audience' grin. Cho had been seeing that a lot this morning too.

"I just want to say that you have a lovely holster."

Cho kept his jaw from dropping open. It was difficult, but he succeeded whereas no one else had.

Lisbon recovered first, turning her head and looking askance. "Er… thank you… I think?"

"Is it new? Or have you been conditioning the leather on the old one?"

"Same one I had Friday."

"Oh…well…it's nice." Then Jane made a big show of looking at the clock on the wall. "Lunch time. I'm going for tacos. Anyone want me to bring something back from him? Or her?"

Without waiting for an answer, he left the bullpen for the elevator. They all looked at Lisbon. She was squinting at his back disappearing up the hall. She was not happy.

* * *

_Tuesday morning, 8 AM_

Van Pelt was ecstatic that CBI had been stepped down from bodyguard duty. She knew there was a reason she'd voted for this governor, even if it was really something beyond Governor Hallenbright's control.

She and Rigsby had been planning this trip to Napa for weeks. Frankly she was getting a little tired of his place. Somehow she came home always smelling like his bachelor apartment, and sex at her place wasn't nearly as exciting as a romantic cottage in Wine Country. Between being on call and various other weekend commitments, it was the only chance for a weekend getaway for the next two months.

As Van Pelt waited for her computer to boot up, Lisbon entered the bullpen from the direction of the elevators.

"Good morning, Boss."

"Good morning, Van Pelt. Seen Jane yet?"

"Not yet," Grace started to answer.

"I'm here," Jane said, entering from the far entrance of the bullpen. He lifted his tea cup from its saucer, toasting Lisbon and grinning like the fool he sometimes pretended to be. "Good morning, Agent Lisbon."

"Good morning, Jane. I just wanted to say that the way you parked your car this morning was exquisite. Absolutely spot on. Perfectly between the lines, like you'd taken a tape measure to it. Did you?"

Van Pelt was astonished. Jane's expression went blank, the only tell Van Pelt had ever seen on the wily consultant.

"Thank you, Lisbon, but no, I didn't take any special care parking my baby this morning."

Lisbon nudged Van Pelt. "You should go out at lunch and see it." Then she left for her office.

Grace looked at him. He shrugged and continued to his couch.

++I'm Game by Sue Shay++

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	2. Chapter 2

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

_Tuesday afternoon 1:45PM_

"…So Cho and I talked to the owner of the gas station across the street and he's going to email the video from his security system. Apparently it reaches to the store front church where the vic was found. He seemed a little reluctant to send it at first. I got the feeling that he wasn't overly familiar with the technology and didn't want the frustration."

Lisbon straightened the stack of files on her desk and nodded to Rigsby who was sitting before her. "Good work. Let me know what shows up."

Jane appeared at the door and poked his head in. "I'd like to see that film too, if I may."

Rigsby nodded. "Sure, Jane. I'll let you know when it shows."

The blond consultant gave a curt, grateful nod before glancing over the boss's desk. "Wow, Lisbon, you keep a neat desk. No one in the entire building keeps as neat a desk as you. I enjoy coming in here because it's so pleasant. Nice job."

And then he was gone. Wayne Rigsby looked at his boss. She wouldn't meet his eye.

* * *

_Tuesday afternoon 3:00pm_

The video proved as valuable as hoped because the quality allowed them to read license plates and see faces. Cho recommended they all watch it on the big flat screen in their conference area.

As Van Pelt cued the surveillance coverage, everyone sat around the table, except Jane who took a seat to the side. Cho looked at his boss when she scoffed lightly.

"Wouldn't you be able to see better from here?" Lisbon asked, pointing to the empty chair between her and Cho.

"Van Pelt can sit there."

"I'm going to be over here," Van Pelt said, pointing to a chair closer to the video playback computer.

Jane shrugged and made his usual 'meh' noise as he waved his hand. "_Ceteris paribus_," he said.

Cho felt complimented that Lisbon looked at him like he could help, although he had no idea what Jane had said.

"It's Latin," he offered with a shrug.

"New Latin, to be precise," Jane added.

Lisbon looked at him with a half-smile, her expression a mix of feeling bemused and being impressed.

"Women love the use of lost languages," she said. "Just makes them all aquiver."

Cho looked at her in puzzlement. Her words were sarcastic but her tone was not. She glanced at him and straightened her back as though resetting her approach.

"What does that even mean?" This time her tone was sterner and a bit condescending, a more Lisbon-like response to Jane being a show-off.

"It means 'all other things being equal'. This chair is as good as that chair so long as I see the screen, which I can clearly."

Rigsby laughed. "He's just afraid to sit next to you, knowing you'll pinch him for talking during the movie or hogging all the popcorn."

Everyone chuckled at that, even Lisbon. She waved a hand at Jane in dismissal and told Van Pelt to start.

They watched the video twice, discussing the various cars and trucks that pulled up in front of the location where the murder had taken place, making note of license plates and automotive makes and models that appeared. Just as Van Pelt was going to remove the thumb drive from the player, Jane stopped her and asked to see it one more time from the very beginning.

They all watched it with him, not seeing anything else, until he leaped to his feet and pointed.

"There! That store two doors down from the church! It closed!"

Sure enough, the cardboard 'open' sign in the window was swinging from someone flipping it, and the store lights were shutting off.

"So?" Van Pelt asked.

Cho felt an electric shock through him as he realized. "It was a Monday night. The store's hours were listed as ten in the morning to nine o'clock at night. On weekends they closed at seven. I noticed when we went to interview the shopkeeper."

"Exactly!"

"So? Maybe they closed early," Rigsby said.

"Or the gas station owner sent us the wrong date," Lisbon said suspiciously.

"And if it's the wrong date, was it intentional?" Jane asked. His eyes glowed in triumph.

As Cho stood with irritation that someone screwed up or was lying to them, he almost missed a look of gratitude pass to the consultant from their boss.

"I'll go ask the store owner if they closed early yesterday," Cho said.

"Good idea," Jane said, rolling down his sleeves and putting on his jacket. "Mind if I tag along? I'd like to have a word with the gas station owner either way."

"Go with him," Lisbon directed, apparently making an effort to maintain control of her very independently-minded consultant. "Van Pelt, double check the metadata on the file. Rigsby, check the gas station owner for priors." She stood and gestured emphatically. "Move."

* * *

**To be continued...**


	3. Chapter 3

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

_Wednesday afternoon_

Ron couldn't wait until he passed his exams to be a full CBI agent. Two more weeks. Two lousy weeks. He loved the team he worked with; really he did. They were all first-rate professionals, and he'd learned a lot from them, but he was anxious to be qualified to transfer to a unit that would allow him to participate and even lead an investigation.

He pressed the call button for the elevator and stepped back just as Special Agent in Charge Teresa Lisbon and Consultant Patrick Jane joined him.

"It's a crazy plan, Jane," Lisbon said plaintively.

"It'll work, though," Jane protested. He glanced over and nodded to Ron in greeting.

Ron nodded in return and shifted the files in his hands uneasily, watching Jane from the corner of his eye. The man was absolutely uncanny and did a magnificent job, but Ron suspected that maybe the consultant was just a little bit nuts.

But like their boss was always saying in his defense – he closed cases.

Still, it seemed like there was something else going on between the two. Ron was just a little cog in the big wheel which meant his workload, along with Maggie's and Florida's, wasn't nearly as demanding as the big dogs like Cho and those guys. It meant he had more time to see how everyone interacted. Obviously Lisbon and Jane were close friends as well as professional colleagues.

He'd heard rumors, of course, and it irritated him. There were always rumors about female agents who did well in any law enforcement organization. It used to piss him off when he was in the LAPD where he knew many competent officers who happened to be female. Agent Lisbon was better than any of _them_. She didn't deserve to be slandered by being aligned with the likes of Jane.

_Ah, I shouldn't be so protective. She can handle herself fine. It's just that she reminds me of my little sister…_

The elevator car arrived and Jane indicated for Lisbon and Ron to enter before him. Yes, he was a bit odd, but Ron couldn't fault him for his manners.

After they entered and the door closed, the two started bickering again, like an old married couple. It reminded Ron of his parents, celebrating their 48th wedding anniversary that year. He chose his floor and stepped back to give them access to choose theirs, although they seemed more intent on arguing.

Suddenly Jane glanced at Ron, gave him a wink and made a grand gesture towards the button panel.

"Agent Lisbon, are we going where Ron's going? Or would you like to press the floor we need?"

She rolled her eyes and stabbed the garage level.

"Such accuracy! Such precision! Intense, too! Lisbon, you must have been an elevator operator in a previous life."

The elevator stopped at Ron's selection, and he exited.

"Good luck with the test, Ron," Jane said quickly.

Then the door closed to the sound of them bickering.

* * *

_Thursday, noon_

Wayne Rigsby unwrapped the hot sandwich, inhaling the delicious aromas of roasted beef, spicy au jus and cooked sweet peppers. He hadn't had a real Chicago-style Italian beef sandwich in years. When his friend recommended the new hot dog stand around the corner as having the best beefs on the West Coast, he was all over it.

He took a bite, savoring the combinations of favors, feeling somewhat guilty that the intense pleasure was almost as enjoyable as sex. He felt like he was cheating on Grace.

"I can't believe he thought we wouldn't notice," Cho said as he and Jane entered the break room.

"You had no reason to suspect the gas station owner was in on the drug ring. It's a small town. I don't know that I would have caught it as quickly if the murder had happened on Tuesday instead of Monday."

"The moment we began tracking plates and conducting interviews, the dates would have started to collide. It was a stupid plan, his sending the wrong video."

"Well, none of those plates would have flagged anyone with criminal records and checking out all those people might have appeared fruitless," Jane said. "I believe the gas station owner assumed we'd be less than thorough. Criminals aren't required to pass minimum intelligence tests before starting a life of crime, Cho. We both know that."

At that moment Jane got a blank look on his face and then started to sniff the air. Wayne looked wide-eyed at them and moved his sandwich closer to his chest, ready to hide it.

"Italian beef?" Jane asked. His gaze floated around until it landed on the sandwich.

Rigsby brought the foil wrapper over to conceal it and stared defiantly.

Then Lisbon entered with her nose also in the air. "What is that heavenly aroma? It reminds me of home." Surprise registered on her face which turned to glee. "Oh my God, is that an Italian beef?"

"I saw it first," Jane said.

"Yeah, but I rank you."

"No one ranks me, woman. How many times are we going to have to go over that point?"

"I complimented you on your socks. Doesn't that count for anything?"

Jane stared off into space a moment, nodding as he held up one finger. "Well… yeah, but that was in front of Bertram. You said they would have matched any tie I would consider wearing. Seriously. Not much of a compliment. You were doing that in an attempt to embarrass me, which we both know is an exercise in futility.

"Now, however, we're talking about what appears to be a Portillo's beef sandwich. All's fair in love and war over Chicago beefs."

Rigsby met Cho's eye and shrugged, knowing Cho had never been to Chicago and didn't have the background to get involved in this discussion. But Lisbon? Being a Chicago native, _she_ knew. And Jane was world-traveled.

This could get ugly very fast.

"I got it at Vinnie's," Rigsby said quickly. "That new place around the corner."

Lisbon immediately reached into her back pocket and pulled out some money.

"Jane, you fly, I'll buy. Two beefs, wet, with sweet and cheese. And one for you if you want."

Jane took the cash and kissed it lightly. "I never would have pegged you as a beef girl," he said, turning to leave. "I thought your entire diet was bear claws and Marie's doughnuts. And coffee"

"Don't forget the giardiniera on the side!" she called as he disappeared around the corner.

Jane's voice floated back, "Yes, my queen. Don't forget the hot stuff. Got it."

Cho took a step toward Rigsby to better see the sandwich, but Lisbon grabbed his arm. "Don't tempt fate. It would be like getting between a momma bear and her cubs."

* * *

**To be continued...**


	4. Chapter 4

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

_Thursday afternoon_

Gale Bertram resented having to leave his office to visit the Serious Crimes Unit. It was like entering the lair of vipers. Or one viper, anyway.

Jane's Lair.

He'd heard through various sources that Jane spent a lot of his time in his "aerie", a small, closeted room in the attic. If Bertram was lucky, the weird, cunning man would be holed up in his perch. If Bertram was really lucky, Jane would be out in the field.

Not likely, however. It seemed that whenever Bertram made an appointment to see Lisbon, Jane wasn't far away. Almost like a blond bodyguard except without the looming presence and the dark sunglasses. Still vaguely formidable however.

And what the hell was that this morning when they were reviewing the investigation into the death threats against the governor? Jane seemed more dismissive than usual, saying the threats were probably nothing, that the governor was a coward, waste of tax payers money anyway, et cetera. And Lisbon went off on a tangent about his damn socks? Honestly, Jane was infecting all their brains.

Bertram exited the elevator, entering the SCU area and trying to hide his cautious glance around the office area when the agents did their work. The room smelled like roasted peppers and spicy beef au jus. Strangely it made him a bit hungry.

He walked past the break room and continued down the hall to Lisbon's office where he found her reclining in her seat, holding her stomach like it was Thanksgiving evening. Her eyes widened at the sight of him and she sat up hastily, crushing some butcher paper and aluminum wrappers into a ball that she threw into the trash.

"Sorry, sir. Late lunch."

She wiped her mouth with a napkin and stood up. He waved her back down and took a seat in front of her desk.

"Agent Lisbon, I just wanted to follow up on that case in Brentwood… with Peter Bialois's daughter at the drug house? You cleared her of that, right?"

"Yes, sir. Also, Jane spotted an inconsistency in the video that the gas station owner sent which led to the discovery that his nephew was running the drug house disguised as a storefront church. We have an APB out on the nephew, and the gas station owner is in temporary lockup, awaiting transfer."

"Good, good. So Charlene Bialois is free to go?"

"Yes, sir, she was freed this morning. The drug charges were dropped for lack of evidence. It appears she merely found the body, just like she said."

"Splendid. Good work, Lis—"

"Yes, Agent Lisbon does excellent work!"

Bertram jumped at the sound of Jane's voice. He looked over at the man standing in the open doorway and heaved a huge sigh as he relaxed into the chair again.

"And you too, apparently, Jane. Sounds like you were responsible for bringing this unsorted mess to a close."

"'Unsorted' or 'sordid', Gale?"

There was a gleam in the consultant's eye, way too knowing. As with most things Jane insinuated, Bertram just ignored the implication. Jane could prove nothing.

Rising to his feet, Bertram buttoned his jacket and looked down his nose at Lisbon.

"Keep up the good work, agent. You appear to be staying smart."

Lisbon flushed slightly and diverted her eyes. When Bertram turned to leave, he found Jane still blocking the way.

"She's staying smart and very accurate." Jane grinned. With an exhibit of sleight-of-hand, he pulled a white rectangle out of thin air and opened it. "You have to see this, Gale. It's absolutely amazing."

It was a paper target from the firing range. The black silhouette had a majority of its center shot out with a few holes in the head and one along the lower edge in the direction of the crotch.

Jane gave Lisbon a wink, making Bertram glance over at his agent-in-charge. The blush to her face practically caught her skin on fire.

"Agent Lisbon could probably shoot the pigtail off a George Washington quarter," Jane continued proudly. "She's really good, and so is her team. They all deserve raises."

"I'll take that under consideration," Bertram said. "Perhaps if we adjusted your consulting fee, I could find more money in the budget."

Jane looked thrown off stride, although Bertram knew it was an act because such a simple insult would clang off Jane's armor easily. Besides, this unit was the highest paid in the Bureau. That came from having such high closed-case rates and consistent good-performance reviews despite the occasional blips of irregularity.

Not that Bertram would admit any of that to the cheeky bastard in front of him.

"Better yet, if I didn't have to spend so much on defending this unit against lawsuits, there'd be lots more available for salaries."

"Weeelll…Gale, we know those are usually dropped…"

"Or what about ER visits because you've been sent to the hospital again after a punch in the nose?"

"I supply my own ice packs," Jane said automatically.

"Good thing we don't pay for your dental," Bertram countered. "One of these days, someone's going to slug you in the mouth and knock a few teeth in."

Jane put his hand over his mouth and grimaced. "Really? You think?"

Bertram couldn't help but to scowl. He glanced again at Lisbon just in time to see her wipe a smile from her face. Stepping around Jane, Bertram hurried away.

_Not Jane's Lair, but Jane's Asylum._


	5. Chapter 5

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

_Friday morning, 8:05am_

Van Pelt entered Boss's office and spotted Jane lying on the couch. Her first impulse was to be quiet because his eyes were closed and he appeared asleep, but Boss said that if he's in her office, he'd have to learn to nap through work being done even if he was choosing to do none. No reason for everyone else to have to accommodate him.

So instead of leaving or tip-toeing, Van Pelt crossed to the file cabinet and opened it normally.

"Good morning, Grace." He said it in a sleepy voice, sounding happy, almost satisfied.

"Good morning, Jane. Sleep well?"

"Not especially. Got here around 2am, busy evening. How about you? Up late to finish packing for your trip with Rigsby?"

She froze for only a split second but resumed immediately. If exposure to Jane taught her one thing in eleven years, it was recovery from discovery. And of all people, it was pointless to lie to Jane. "The bag's in the trunk. That's all that matters."

"So, where is Wayne taking you?"

There was no need to glance at him to see the smug smile on his face.

"I'm taking _him_ to Napa. How did you know?"

When he didn't answer, she finally looked at him. He was staring at the ceiling with a slight smile on his face like he was a million miles away. She returned to her file search.

"Where's Lisbon?" Jane asked.

"Dunno. Must be running late."

"Second time this week. Hope she's okay."

"I think it's this merger with Narcotics. It's worrisome. None of us are operating a hundred percent." Then Van Pelt paused. _Second time? I don't remember her being late this week. Except…Tuesday? When she made that strange compliment about Jane's parking? She arrived right on time, which actually is kinda late for her. Couldn't be. She looked awfully happy. Being behind schedule usually made her grumpy. _

"Meh, it's just a rumor about that merger," Jane said. "You all need to calm down."

Boss strode in, practically stomping.

"Good morning, Van Pelt," she said flatly, setting her attaché case on the floor. She pointed at Jane and gestured toward the door. "You? Get out of my office. I have some calls to make."

Van Pelt looked from Lisbon to Jane. He sat up, a hurt expression flooding his face.

"Aw, not fair, Lisbon! Grace gets to stay and listen in on your conversations but I can't? And here I was about to compliment you on the beautiful esthetic of your desk. How the phone message pink goes so well with the rainbow-hued forms-in-triplicate next to it."

"These pink phone messages are complaints from the chief of the Brentwood police about that stunt you pulled on the gas station owner, and these forms-in-triplicate are things I have to fill out so you can keep your job. Now get out before I order Van Pelt to throw you out."

"All right, all right," Jane said, raising his hands in surrender and getting to his feet. "I don't want Grace to pull a muscle before this wonderful free weekend we've been granted simply because the Governor chickened out due to threats."

Her glare at him deepened and she pointed to her door again. "Out."

To spare Jane any embarrassment, Van Pelt tried to avoid looking up, although with him, there was no need to think he might be affected by her harsh treatment. Still it seemed a bit heavy-handed. As Jane walked out, Grace glanced up and received a shock; Boss was checking out Jane's ass! And smiling!

Grace looked away before she was caught. Definitely a capper for a very strange week.

"Uhm… Boss? Is it true that Hallenbright cancelled because of threats? I mean, I know the governor gets death threats all the time; that's why we were called for additional security. These would have to be very bad…"

Then she looked at Lisbon again, having given her the chance to switch her attention.

"They were mysterious about what was threatened but specific to the governor's schedule," Lisbon said. "Bertram said tracing the origins has been nearly impossible so…"

Lisbon wound down, staring at Van Pelt as some thought crossed her mind. Then she looked out her office door where Jane had exited. Her expression seemed slightly worried before she shook her head as if denying her thoughts.

"Anyway, better safe than sorry, right? It's nice to have the weekend off and not even be on call."

"Very nice," Van Pelt said, closing the drawer and gathering the files she'd pulled. "Well, I hope those forms don't keep you here late."

Lisbon sighed and settled into her chair. "I'm going to make sure they don't. Pass the word that I don't want to be bothered unless there are dead bodies involved."

Van Pelt headed for the door. "You got it, Boss."

* * *

_Friday afternoon_

Sometimes Cho just needed to be away from the team. Rigsby humming under his breath could get irritating, and Van Pelt occasional "oh!" of mild surprise while researching on her computer was distracting. The rest of the support group like Florida, Maggie and Ron moved through their jobs unpredictably and broke Cho's concentration. It was especially problematic when they weren't working on a specific case that engaged him.

To escape random distractions, Cho fled to the table in the break room. Midafternoon was the quietest time there, especially on a Friday, so he was able to peruse cold case files in peace.

"Hey, Cho," Jane said as he sauntered to the cabinet where he stored his tea.

Cho answered automatically "Hey, Jane," before moving on to studying the notes by a long gone Sac P.D. detective. The case was the strangulation death of a 29-year-old mother of two committed three years prior. The story was unusual in that the ten-year-old son claimed he did it, despite being in school at the time. Evidently the boy was covering for someone, but who? Sac P.D. never found any solid leads.

As Cho read the boy's statement for a third time, he was vaguely aware that Lisbon had entered the area, but he decided not to speak unless spoken to.

"Another cup of tea, eh?" she murmured to Jane

"Nothing finer when preparing for a big event," Jane said.

_Big event?_ Cho locked his eyes on the dossier before him, but his ears turned towards his boss and the consultant.

"You're starting to smell like Earl Grey," Lisbon said.

"Really? I've never smelled an earl before. What does he smell like?"

The coffee carafe rattled in its stand as Lisbon removed it. Fluid poured and the carafe rattled again as she placed it back.

"Pretty good." Her voice sounded light and flirty. "He must if they scented a tea after him."

Jane's chuckle sounded muffled, as though he were laughing into his tea cup.

"Maybe you could develop a men's cologne. You know, like 'Grey for Men' or something like that."

"For that enticing 'used teabag' aroma?" Jane asked. "How very come-hither!"

"Fifty Shades of Earl Grey," Lisbon said. Then she giggled like a school girl.

Cho was shocked. Flirting? Jane flirted with Boss all the time. Hell, he flirted with everyone. It was expected for him to be charming. But Boss was flirting with Jane?

That just topped the week. They'd been acting odd towards each other – cautious, leery – ever since Jane's weird "double entendre"-like compliment about Boss's holster. He thought it was just an off-color joke until he realized other things had changed in their behavior towards one another. Lots of strange comments and back-handed compliments on weird characteristics coming out of nowhere. At the crime scene on Tuesday, they seemed to avoid one another. When Jane was at the body, Lisbon was on the far end of the group or exploring the rest of the scene. Or when Lisbon was examining the vic, Jane was wandering the church looking at things.

But when they came close, the very air around them took on a charge, electric and palpable.

That was another odd thing; changing the closed-case pizza tradition to closed-case beef sandwiches. Jane once stated that when women change relationship status, they're said to change other things in their lives as well, often exhibited by drastic hairstyle or clothing choices. It never proved true of Grace, but perhaps Teresa?

It couldn't be. Those two had been successfully – and detrimentally – avoiding each other for years. Had they come to their senses at last?

Cho cleared his throat and the two stopped mid-word to depart the room in opposite directions.

_Evidence,_ Cho thought. _About damned time._

* * *

**_To be continued: finally! Teresa's & Patrick's POV_**


	6. Chapter 6

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

_Friday evening_

Lisbon found herself humming as she tucked the last of the paperwork into her attaché and then chuckled as she removed it again. Who was she kidding? This weekend was dedicated to anything but work.

She put her head down, supporting it with her hand. Why was everything in her life a big question mark suddenly? What would happen this weekend? Would she be able to put up with the more curmudgeonly aspect of his personality? Would he misbehave, reverting to his usual wiseass persona? Would they get into a big argument? She could see herself dressing and heading for her car at 2am, fuming with disgust.

Last weekend had been nearly perfect. All her first dates should act that way...to a point. He picked her up for dinner and a concert dressed in Dockers and a sports coat with leather elbow patches, evidently new purchases. Said he wanted to look like a college professor instead of a luxury car salesman. Admittedly, it threw off her stride and she felt impelled to change into something a little less dressy.

He surprised her with his car as well, a BMW he rented because, he said with a wink, "The Citroen needed cleaning". Knowing her feelings about his ancient French auto, he was being very considerate. He even held the car door for her.

They shared a delightful Thai meal before heading to the Jazz bar. Then they took a walk in the park along the river where he held her hand and told her for the tenth, eleventh and twelfth times how beautiful she looked. By the time of their first kiss, she almost believed him. By the third kiss, she was telling him how delightful he was.

Eventually they ended up back at her place for a nightcap. Apart from loving him as her good friend, she often caught herself exploring her heart about the love she'd been resisting for years. She had wondered if he felt as strongly about her as she felt about him. Or was this whole evening just going to be an exercise in frustration? And would he make a pass at her? She wasn't sure what she'd do if he did, but it made no difference because he didn't.

Instead they shared a bottle of wine and talked for a while about nothing – the usual date talk like they'd shared all evening. It was putting her on edge because his eyes were positively glowing with desire. When they began to cuddle, then kiss on her couch, she expected a wandering hand or an aggressive lean into their kiss, pressing his chest to hers, pinning her to the cushions.

Nothing. He played with her hair and said it was as silky as he always imagined. His eyes stared into hers as though they were the only thing he'd ever found worth looking at. Once his finger traced over her lips like they were starring in a movie love scene. At this point, she decided that it was all a big con and told him to stop playing her.

To her complete shock, he looked sincerely hurt.

He stood and prepared to leave. Against her better judgment, she apologized and asked him to stay. With reluctance he agreed, but it was a while before the sense of violation disappeared from his eyes.

_So how did we end up in bed? It seemed so sudden._

She wasn't hypnotized, she knew that. Renewed chitchat led to snuggling again and then kissing. The heat in his eyes matched the heat in her heart as they broke off a kiss, and she decided she was tired of just wondering what making love to this handsome guy would be like. She'd known him for ten years, but there were still things that were a complete mystery. Taking him by the hand, she led him upstairs.

One of the things that intrigued her the most was how his self-proclaimed 'acute powers of observation' would serve him as a lover. It was a little bit of a game, at first. She would slightly overreact to something and he would pursue it to the same degree. If he nibbled her ear, she'd gasp lightly the first few times to see if he'd repeat it. He did each time until she stopped.

Or if he ran his tongue over her nipple, she'd cry out, so he'd do it again, or something similar. She planned to stop after a bit, but he kept improving upon the caress and soon she didn't want to stop just for the sake of testing him. He knew what he was doing without any hints from her, and all she wanted was to lose herself completely in the wonder of it all.

But she ran into trouble when she moaned to him that he was 'huge' when he entered her.

He withdrew completely and lay down next to her. There was silence. No caress, no movement, nothing. She opened her eyes to find him staring at her intensely.

"Wow… that was a tremendous and unbelievable lie."

She gaped at him a moment before looking around wildly. What the hell was wrong with him?

"What do you mean? It's… it's just… what women say… yanno?"

"Really? Why?"

Again her lips moved around without making a sound. Had he really asked that? The man who lied to most of the suspects they'd ever investigated or interrogated? Sexually speaking, it was a cold shower that drove all desire from her body.

"We just do. We have slumber parties as teenagers and tell each other what guys want to hear. I dunno. We just do."

"But it's a lie, Teresa. Not that I go around comparing myself at the gym, but I understand myself to be about average in size. Why tell me something like that?"

"Well… well… well, you were going on and on about how beautiful I am. It's the same thing!"

"No, it's not nearly the same. I said I think you're beautiful because you are, Teresa. You have a delightful visage that I look forward to seeing every day. I love how happy it makes me. It never fails to brighten my day because it reflects the wonderful person behind the gorgeous face and form."

She was getting a lot of practice silently moving her lips in shock. The King Con was chastising her for lovers' lies while claiming to tell the truth? Yet he sounded so sincere!

"Besides, Teresa, having a huge dick doesn't make for a good partner, unless you're making porn. I don't have a lot of experience with intimate relationships, but I would think that one's competency in bed depends upon a lot more than size."

There was no arguing; he was right on many points. She'd had partners who were uncomfortable to accommodate, and lovers who had everything going for them except know-how. Size didn't matter as much as women gossiped about. Attention and caring trumped it every time. No matter what was motivating Patrick Jane that evening, he had been entirely dedicated to bringing her pleasure. So far he had been an excellent lover. His confident caresses and passionate kisses awakened thrills she hadn't felt since she'd lost her virginity. It all felt so new and vibrant, like she was nineteen again.

And they hadn't even screwed yet!

It was weird to think of him as inexperienced. He knew everything about everything else, right? Brain like a computer? Encyclopedic recall? But in terms of being a lover, yes, it was easy to believe he didn't know a lot about how one night stands behaved. Although he justified his bad behavior on pretty much everything else, she was certain his love for Angela had never allowed him to cheat on her. He despised infidelity in others, making him especially harsh with men who disrespected or cheated on their wives, even ten years after the loss of his own wife.

And the fiasco with Lorelei? That bitch knew more tricks than a Nevada hooker. No doubt he let her run their interaction, not believing a word she said.

Lisbon felt a twinge of jealousy and anger: jealousy that Red John's whore had seduced Patrick and anger that Patrick had prostituted himself for the sake of catching Red John. In a strange, awkward moment of self-discovery, Teresa Lisbon realized that if Patrick was going to break his celibacy, she'd wanted it to be someone she approved of, which would have been a pretty tall order to fill. That he would ask _her_ on a date was a bit odd at first. She was certain he would pursue someone really special, but if he needed someone to 'practice' with, it made sense to choose a friend like her. Someone who wouldn't harm him.

"It should be a mutual compatibility," Patrick continued, "and the desire to reciprocate the pleasure provided. There should be sincere affection and at least the tiniest speck of love."

Then he placed a soft kiss on the corner of her mouth.

"I've had the first part since the day we met, and the second has… well… grown beyond a speck."

Then he kissed her, tenderly nibbling her bottom lip with his. She pulled away.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded, trying to keep her tone even but having difficulty.

"It means I have deep feelings for you, Teresa, and… well, I won't lie to you about them. I've loved you a long time."

"Me?"

"Yes, you." His serious expression vanished with the genuine amusement displayed in his eyes. "Would I be here naked in your bed confessing love for another woman?"

"Well, I hope not, Patrick, but this just seems so sudden…"

"No, it's not, Teresa. I've seen a spark of love in your eyes, too. And maybe a little anguish that I can't give up the love of my family. Or my revenge."

Like he told people all the time, there was no point denying the truth.

"I've loved you as my best friend for a long time, Patrick, but as for… _love_ love? I just don't know. I mean…I find myself so cross with you sometimes, I want to scream."

"Understandable. I intentionally make myself as unpredictable as possible. Predictable behavior is readable behavior, and you know I don't want to be read."

A spark of fear flashed in his eyes. Yes, she understood that on several levels, being guilty of the same thing. Maybe that's why it was so frustrating to deal with him. She always felt so exposed. But love was trust and trust came from knowledge as well as belief. She did trust him, but did he truly trust her?

"You're going to have to let me in if you want me to love you," she said softly. "I know you better than probably anyone but you make it hard. Just when I think I have you figured out, you do something completely out of left field."

"Yes, sometimes I'm unlovable." His expression dropped into utter sadness, and she felt guilty.

But loving him out of guilt didn't do either of them any good.

"Patrick, we'll have to take it slow. I admit that you're right. I'm constantly asking myself why you have the effect on me that you do, and it makes me wonder if it's love. But it would complicate things for us to be lovers, with or without the physical relationship. With or without the emotional." She bit her bottom lip, making a decision and trying to sit up. "In fact, I'm not sure this was a particularly good idea."

"Oh, no you don't…" He laughed, putting his arm and leg over her and wrestling her back to the pillow. He placed playful kisses on her jaw and down her neck.

She giggled and struggled against him, soon tangling their limbs. Pushes became caresses. Tugs became touches. As he was about to enter her body again, she put her forearms again his chest.

"Patrick, stop…" she said, staring into his eyes. "Promise me…"

Those gorgeous green eyes studied her a moment before softening with deep affection. "Anything, my dear."

_My God…he means it. He loves me._

However, it didn't change the words she needed from him at the moment.

"We can't act any differently at work."

"I promise."

"No sweet talk. No special treatment. We have to remain professional, like we have all along."

"I can't compliment you about your hair? Or how nice you smell? Or how wonderful you look?"

"No. Nothing that is… personal. The team can't know how things have changed between us."

He captured her lips in a deep kiss until they both came up for air.

"I promise not to say how wonderful you are and that I love you truly…but only… only if you promise to spend next weekend in the mountains with me. Drive up Friday and come back Sunday."

"I can't. The governor is appearing at the Strand Hotel for a thousand dollar a plate dinner on Saturday night, and CBI has been called in to assist with security."

"Damn…"

"Promise me anyway, Patrick."

"Yes, I promise you that anyway. But you'll come away with me sometime, won't you?"

"Of course," she said, smiling. "The next free weekend I have, I will spend with you." Then she played coy. "But I'd rather be planning what we can do right now."

She wrapped her legs around his ass and pushed a little, forcing his head a little into her. He grinned that million watt smile at her, and she decided to put his mouth to better use.

* * *

He kept his word this past week, she thought, putting her attaché under her desk and locking the cabinets behind her. Although his 'holster' comment with its double meaning really pissed her off. She'd pulled him into her office at the end of the day to give him a piece of her mind, but somehow he charmed her into coming to his hotel and spending the night with him. Their lovemaking was even sweeter than it had been on Saturday, although she was still a little angry. Or maybe _because_ she was still a little angry.

By the time she'd gotten home Tuesday morning to change into a fresh outfit for work, she decided the best revenge was to play his own game. Quite a game it became, too. She was proud of how her two-meaning parking comment gave him real pause, although she knew that was the only point she'd score in the game. Okay, maybe half a point for the socks compliment in front of Bertram. It may not have embarrassed him but it definitely amused him, which was the ultimate purpose of the game.

Smiling, she retrieved her purse from the drawer and exited, pausing to lock her office door behind her.

"Lisbon, glad I was able to catch you before you left."

He walked up, tea cup in hand, tired smile on his face.

"Yes, Jane? What can I help you with?"

"Oh, just wanted to wish you a nice weekend. Everyone seems to have bolted out of here, so I didn't get the chance to say it to anyone else."

What a magnificent liar! Without knowing him as well as _she_ did, anyone else would have thought it was just the lonely widower feeling envious of coworkers who had real lives, outside interests and families to go home to.

Of course, a week ago, she was departing the office with no life, no interest or no family to go home to, either. In a way, they were two of a kind. It was a good reminder as they entered this new phase of their relationship.

"Thank you, Jane. I hope you have a nice weekend too."

"Thanks."

He paused as a clerk walked passed. "Good night, Janice."

"Good night, Mr. Jane."

When she had disappeared around the corner, Patrick looked around slowly before giving Teresa a quick kiss on her lips.

"I'll see you there," he whispered before hurrying away.

_Damn it. He didn't exactly keep his promise after all!_

Then she touched her lips still tingling from his stolen kiss and smiled.

_Okay, maybe just this once…_

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	7. Chapter 7

**_Boy, this is getting a little out of control. Jane's POV chapter was supposed to be seven hundred words TOP! Now it may be another in addition to this, plus perhaps lead to another story._**

**_This addiction of mine must stop!_**

* * *

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

_Friday night, approximately 7:45 pm_

Patrick exited the Citroën and gave the keys to the valet, indicating the trunk key that allowed the bellhop to retrieve the bags. After receiving the claim ticket, he glanced around out of habit and entered the resort lobby, with the bellhop following a respectful distance behind. He approached the check-in desk with ID and wallet in hand, fully expecting surprise that he was paying with cash. The staff was well trained and only reacted minimally, although he loved reading the telling twitch in the corner of the hotel clerk's mouth as he handed over several large bills.

Patrick Jane didn't do credit cards. The scam potential was far too great. The ability to be tracked by its activity was too damning. However, tucked away in his memory palace was Mashburn's credit card information. A quick text from Walter granted permission to use it to hold the reservation.

As the registration paperwork was filled out, he reviewed the weekend's itinerary in his head. This evening all depended upon how much energy Teresa had after he kept her up most of the night before, plus a full day's work and then the drive from Sacramento. He was adaptable, so long as they were together. The suite had a jetted tub as well as a steam shower, either of which would be delightful to share with the Lovely Lisbon this evening. But if she simply wanted to have a glass of wine and go to sleep, that would be just as wonderful.

Tomorrow he planned morning snowboarding lessons and then a fondue lunch in the restaurant overlooking the slopes. The afternoon could be either a couple's hot stone massage in the resort spa or maybe a little love in the privacy of their suite. Afterward, dinner at the Pianeta Ristorante or perhaps just room service, depending upon what happened in the afternoon.

Certainly Sunday morning would be leisurely room service brunch because he planned to make love to her all night. In the afternoon, perhaps they could do a little shopping in town before the two-hour drive back to Sacramento.

But even if all she wanted to do was catch up on her sleep for two days, he was fine with that, so long as she let him hold her in his arms as she slept.

After checking that the suite was satisfactory and tipping the bellhop, he unpacked quickly, changed out of his suit, and returned downstairs to await her arrival. Although they left at roughly the same time, he knew she'd drive safely and cautiously, just as she knew he'd speed like the impatient driver he was.

_Let me know when you're close_, he texted her. _And use the valet parking. This is my treat._

He knew she wouldn't but it never hurt to try. He also knew it would be a few minutes before she answered. She'd have to find a safe place to pull off the road before she read and returned his text. He grinned when he read her answer.

_Like hell_, she said.

_Find me in Coburn Station_, he replied. _Bar off main lobby._

_Drink slowly,_ she answered. _I'm still forty-five minutes out._

He rolled his eyes but smiled despite his mild disappointment. _Hurry up. I'm… anxious._

In a minute she wrote back. _Don't start without me._

He chuckled and thought for a moment before texting her again. _Love you, Teresa._ He wasn't surprised when she didn't text back.

Slipping the phone into his blazer jacket pocket, he settled at the bar and ordered a blended scotch neat. Mostly he enjoyed the nose of the drink, inhaling the rich bouquet before taking the smallest sip and feeling the warmth settle on his tongue.

_My dear_ he thought as he remembered their parting early that morning, relishing the sweet, familiar yearning he felt for her the entire drive back to the CBI offices. The difference that made it so delightful? It wasn't unrequited. The future held such promise now when it didn't before.

They hadn't made love, although occasionally their kissing worked them up enough that he thought they might. Mostly they talked. It was easy to do. They'd been friends for so long; each knew what the other was interested in. She challenged him with her intelligence, asking him questions and sharing her opinion. It was delightful to watch her develop her argument against a point he'd made or to see her mind rework a concept in her head until she had a complete understanding of it.

The night he confessed his love, she said that he needed to let her into his heart. To his great surprise (and probably hers), he eventually found himself talking about being a carnie child, brought up not to trust those outside the close-knit community. It was easy to distrust. Anyone outside the community was likely never to be seen again because the show had moved on to the next stop on the circuit. By the time it returned, there were usually new people never to see again. It was only later that he found out why to outsiders, carnie society was reviled. And it was only after meeting Angela did he start to understand the outsiders' view of carnies.

Patrick was careful to minimize for Teresa about his start as the psychic Boy Wonder at the tender age of nine, explaining only that his father had trained him on the key words and phrases that the man then used to convey the information about what kind of object he was holding in his hand. Starting the question with "Patrick…?" meant it was a female-oriented item. Starting with "My boy…?" was male. "Can you see…?" indicated a silver object. "What do I…?" signified a gold one. "What is it that…?" meant it was non-metallic. At first there were only a few things his dad would pick so guessing was easy for a boy his age.

In a few years there were so many more phrase cues for him to remember that his father taught him to organize his brain using the system Patrick learned later was called a method of loci or a memory palace, although his dad never used either of those names. To Patrick, it was just a big house of storage, and at first he imagined a cozy home of the type he saw in Miracle On 34th Street on TV. When the clues became so complex that it took hours out of his day to learn them by heart, he searched for examples of larger buildings to use for figurative storage. He'd seen a movie that featured a high school, so he switched to that.

Yet the more he used the high school of his imagination, the more he yearned to actually attend one, even though he was only twelve years old.

He didn't tell Teresa, but when he asked his father about going to a real school instead of the limited home-schooling provided within the carnie community, he received a beating that he realized later almost ended his life. Had it not been for Bertha the Fat Lady who took him to the local hospital, it definitely would have. The long deep scar by his left eye was a daily visible reminder.

He still didn't understand why Alex Jane hadn't been arrested for attempted murder, or at least child abuse. As the last blow landed, he remembered the slurred voice of his father shouting "No son of Alex Jane is going to get brain-washed by a bunch of marks."

And no son of Alex Jane was stupid enough to risk another harsh beating by asking again, which was when Patrick developed his intense love of reading and problem solving. Books borrowed from other carnies or picked up at garage sales or stolen from stores were devoured by him in secret, usually with a dictionary nearby to decipher words that were well beyond his father's knowledge.

Patrick did share with Teresa that it was through the expansion of his world with books that he understood the real reason his father didn't want him to go to school; Alex Jane had no true talent or ability of his own, other than thinking of ways to cheat people. Without his son's unquestioning acquiescence to performing like a trained seal and making their money, Jane Senior's gambling and alcohol issues would give the carnie community ample reason to leave him jailed in one of the towns along the circuit. There was a serious danger that school would teach Patrick how horrible his life was, prompting him to run away, leaving it behind.

The phone vibrated in his pocket, indicating another text.

_Stopped for gas Colfax._

Colfax? She was _more_ than 45 minutes away, especially the way she drove! Dammit, woman!

He heaved a sigh, staring at the message. Better safe than sorry. There was a long stretch of large ranches and desolate national forest between here and there, so in a way he was grateful for her caution and making certain she had plenty of gas.

_Take your time. Be safe. _

It felt so good when she sent just a heart emoticon as reply.

How flirtatious! He was really getting to like these displays of affection from Teresa. As a young couple, he and Angela were very reserved. It was the nature of carnie folk not to express emotions –especially in public – because it might expose affiliations and accomplices to the wrong people Out of habit he and Angela continued to act as they were raised. Reading a mark was second nature to a carnie, especially the one who specialized as a con artist. Avoiding being read was just as natural.

It surprised him continually how incautious cops were about being read, his dear Teresa in particular. Her blatant cover was a glare that deepened whenever she felt another reaction coming on.

Cho on the other hand was one of the few cops good at hiding his reactions, although Jane could see them if he paid close enough attention.

Like the 'Earl Grey' interlude he and Teresa had shared in the break room earlier that day. He knew Cho was listening because his breathing slowed and his eyes moved around the report instead of across it, definitely not reading it. At the time Jane mentally shrugged, deciding that if Teresa was more interested in playing their game than keeping their relationship secret, it was all on her. He'd promised to refrain from initiating personal compliments of her, but if she was going to flirt with him, there was nothing to stop him from appreciating her attention.

The look on her face was priceless when Cho cleared his throat. She practically ran back to her office.

Later, as Jane exited the men's room, Cho was entering. He grabbed Jane's arm with undeniable pressure and pulled him back into the bathroom. After checking that they were alone, Cho invaded Jane's personal space and looked in his eye as if weighing his words before speaking them.

"I don't care what you do with each other because, frankly, Lisbon's a big girl who can take of herself, but if you fuck up the happy atmosphere she's created around this team and ruin her good work, I'll kick your ass, Jane. Then Rigsby will finish you for hurting her."

Ice Man was a very good nickname for the man in front of him. Jane swallowed hard.

"Understood," he answered. "No drama."

Cho nodded once and stepped back, entering a stall like they hadn't spoken. Jane straightened his jacket on his shoulders and left.

The phone vibrated again, rousing Patrick from his thoughts.

_Did you eat yet? I'm going to grab a doughnut._

It was a wonder that woman was as skinny as she was, considering her steady diet of fatty fried foods. Besides, what kind of inamorato would he be if he let his lady eat stale gas station doughnuts?

_We'll order room service when you arrive,_ he texted back. _Just get here already._

It didn't matter what he wrote. No doubt she'd taste like a chocolate-iced, fried cake doughnut when he kissed her. Not that he was complaining exactly.

_They have blueberry muffins. I'll bring you one._

That woman. He didn't deserve her.

_Almost as good a treat as you, so get here so I can devour you._

Her return text came immediately.

_Promise?_

_Cross my heart, _he wrote back. He fought the grin from coming to his face when he added. _But drive safely._

Her answer was another heart emoticon.

He asked the bartender to refill the snack mix bowl and just as he settled in for his wait, his phone vibrated while returning it to his pocket.

_By the way…_

When nothing more followed, he sent her a question mark.

_Love you too, Patrick._

He closed his eyes and swallowed. A deep breath went far in preventing happy tears from escaping his eyes. His hands tightened around the phone. It vibrated once more.

The message read _And since when do you even own a pair of jeans and a blazer, Goldilocks?_

Whipping around, he scanned the bar room, looking for her.

Through the door into the main lobby, he spotted her sitting on the armrest of an upholstered chair, arms crossed over her chest, legs crossed at the ankles. Her lovely face was made even prettier by the amused-at-his-expense smile. As he slipped the phone into his pocket and started towards her, she brought her phone again and texted quickly. He stopped at the vibration and took out the phone.

_Truthful answer to my question…come here._

Shaking his head in disbelief, he crossed the last thirty feet. "So no gas at Colfax?" he asked.

"Nope, and no blueberry muffin either."

"Humph. So what's your question?" He gave her a soft peck on the lips and then leaned over to pick up her bags. She grabbed the lapel of his blazer and brought his face closer, her smile turning into a smirk.

"Did you send that threatening message to the governor's office?"

She raised her eyebrow playfully, as if the question was just teasing.

"Is this work related or relationship related?" he asked in a careful, soft voice.

He watched the smirk diminish greatly. It wasn't the response she expected. "Relationship," she said.

He straightened and shoved his hands into his pockets. This was dangerous territory. He'd sworn to her during their first liaison, after their first date, that he'd always be truthful when it came to their relationship. In his mind, it was with the understanding that his job as a consultant played by a different set of rules. They both knew that in order for him to be effective in his unique way, it needed to.

But if she took to claiming everything was relationship-related, things could turn sour very quickly. He'd take a chance and gauge her response to the truth.

"Yes, I did."

She grimaced and took a deep breath. Her gaze fell to the phone in her hand.

"Okay…okay, thank you for being honest."

"I'm a selfish, egotistical bastard who wants what he wants when he wants it."

"Yep," she said softly, still not looking at him. Finally she stood and picked up one of her bags, gesturing toward her garment bag and the large suitcase on rollers. "Give me a hand with these, will you?" When he did, she glanced around. "Which way to the elevators?"

"Here," he said, leading the way.

It should have been a happier reunion, but the tension in her body language warned him to not make light of the situation. Her gaze never met his as they walked. She was accepting the fact that he'd committed a felony that had nothing to do with Red John – nearly a felony anyway, since there were no actual threats against the governor's wellbeing, so it was more of a 'gross misdemeanor'.

Regardless. She wasn't happy about it.

They had the elevator car to themselves when the door closed and started to move to the 11th floor.

"Still love me?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "But don't ever ask me to drink the Kool-Aid again. If I find out you did something like this in the future, I will arrest you."

"It was stupid," he agreed. "I'm sorry."

She looked at him, a little surprise, a little disbelieving. Finally her eyes softened and she nodded.

"Thank you." Her voice was low and affected.

_I don't apologize enough to her for some of the selfish things I do._

As he bent forward to kiss her, the elevator stopped and the doors opened, taking on a passenger, so he moved away. He may be in love but public displays of affection still weren't a choice for him. He looked at Teresa from the corner of his eye and found her staring straight ahead, blushing.

Her either, apparently.


	8. Chapter 8

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

He unlocked the suite and handed her the key before holding the door open. When they entered the main living area, she gasped because of the view out the wall of windows. He had to admit that they'd lucked out. It was a spectacular overlook of the ski area which was lit by the resort for night runs. The snowcapped mountain range stretched to the south, still visible by the warm waning light of the setting sun. In his haste to return to the lobby, he hadn't looked very closely.

"I think it's similar from the bedroom," he said.

She spun around and stared at him.

"This is so extravagant, Patrick! And magnificent!"

"It's just a hotel room." He swept a loving assessment over her body. "What's magnificent is _you_, Teresa."

It was charming how she blushed and lowered her face. He placed a gentle peck on the crown of her head and removed the overnight bag from her hand, taking it with her other bags into the bedroom. She gasped as she entered behind him. A surge of pride shot through him. Nice that she was impressed.

"I know you're a man of exquisite tastes, Patrick, but this is really outstanding."

He hung her garment bag next to his in the closet and turned back to watch her approach the floor to ceiling windows to look out. The view _was_ spectacular and he wasn't even looking out the window. Her confidence, her compassion, her intelligence…everything about her was beautiful to him.

And she was sexier than she knew. There was a terrible temptation to drag her to the bed and ravage her before they did anything else, but he knew his woman. She was more at ease when she initiated things. From the first time he met her, he'd read in her more subtle kinesics that she had a history of childhood abuse, which was confirmed later by her proclivity to hit things that deeply enraged her. Then on their date he became certain it wasn't _just_ physical violence she'd suffered. It may have been by her father. It may have been someone else. Without her saying anything about it, he couldn't guess with confidence, and at this stage of their relationship, it wasn't his place to ask. As her friend and lover, it _was_ his place to keep her comfortable with their intimacy. In the past, she had probably forced herself to move past any emotional discomfort. Choice was so important to someone with her past. It wasn't just "control freakishness", like they frequently teased each other about. It was the need to feel safe. That need was probably the driving force behind her wanting to be a cop in the first place.

"There's a balcony," he said, pointing to the right of her. "I didn't go out there, but I imagine it's lovely."

She looked around, first at the sliding doors and then a little further.

"Ooo, and a fireplace?" Her eyes widened.

"Certainly an added bonus."

With a wink, she directed her grin towards him. "Too bad there's no bear skin rug."

_Hopefully just bare skin,_ he thought.

God, he had turned into such a horndog since they first made love. Something about her made him feel like he needed to make up for the years spent afraid to admit love for her. After sex with Lorelei, all he'd wanted was a long, scalding-hot, cleansing shower and resumed celibacy as soon as possible. The fact that he'd lowered his barriers enough to ask Teresa for a date was miraculous. To accept her invitation to sleep with her and successfully perform without little blue pills or even mild biofeedback application was... quite a surprise to him.

Now sex with Teresa was never far from his mind.

"I bet if I called the concierge's desk…" he said with a grin, picking up the phone alongside the bed.

"Patrick, no!" she cried, hurrying towards him.

"No?" he asked, letting her take the phone from his hand. As she reached around him to place it back in the cradle, she held herself up on his right arm. Her breasts brushed against his side like a loving caress, and her new perfume filled his head, prompting him to open the Lisbon palace and race to the Initiation Room wherein he stored distinct images of her about to make her move. Memories of her taking his hand and leading her to the bedroom of her apartment. The sensation of her releasing the buttons on his vest when they kissed immediately upon entering his hotel room on Monday night.

Ah, good memories. _Great_ memories. A very special palace to visit.

Still, he maintained a calm exterior, despite the turmoil of desire racing through his body. Gently he laid his arm around her, touching her but not holding her. "So…how about dinner? I know you didn't bring me a _muff_in… er, a _blueberry_ one that is… so you didn't stop at Marie's on your way out of town. I expect you're hungry."

_Smart woman._ It didn't take her long to figure out his double entendre. Again, the blush rose up her neck, rushing to meet the flush coming down her cheeks. She took a step back.

"You are so bad," she said, lightly slapping his arm.

"In a good way, I hope."

She took out her cellphone and waved it at him. "I have it in writing that you were going to order room service."

"Anything your heart desires, my love. Steak? Lobster?"

The bed sank only a little under her weight as she first sat, then lay back. Her pert breasts pointed toward the ceiling as she stretched her arms over her head. She squirmed a little, giving a slight sigh underscored with a hum. There was a glint in her eyes as she smiled a vixen smile.

He didn't need to be a mentalist to read the intention. That didn't mean he had to respond like she wanted. Maybe a little game was in order...

Exiting the bedroom, he crossed to the kitchenette counter and picked up the leather portfolio that contained the hotel information. After turning on the gas fireplace in the living room area, he sat on the sofa and opened the folder to peruse the menu.

A familiar growl of frustration emanated from the bedroom, similar to the ones that often floated out of her office. At any moment, he expected a loud "Jane!"

"Hey, look! I can have eggs for breakfast, Teresa. And you can have steak and fried potatoes."

From the sofa, he could see her still lying on the mattress. She glanced at him and then began to unbutton her blouse and undo her slacks. From her movement it was evident she was squirming out of them. Then she stood, moving out of view because of the wall. Briefly she reappeared wearing only a very nice lacy green bra and matching panties, fancier than the practical undergarments that she usually wore. Her long walnut hair fell a little in front of her face as she gave him a come-hither look before closing the door most of the way, just enough to block his view of the bed. There was no sound for a while but he caught the tiniest whiff of her sexy musk, her arousal. Or it was strictly his imagination. Either way, his dick began to stiffen.

Curiosity got the better of him so he rose to reenter the bedroom. As he did, her soft sigh underscored with a hum floated to him again followed by a hitch in her breath. He swung back the door.

She lay in a nest of the pillows. Her left breast was popped out of the bra cup and she caressed the tight pink nipple in a circular motion. Her fingers on her other hand were also moving, slipped between the emerald fabric of her panties and her fair white skin. Moving gently, her left leg was bent and waving in time to her stroking right hand.

God, she was beautiful when she was slack with desire. Something about her repose seemed to flow energy from her limbs and into his cock which firmed at the sight of her. When the scent of her feminine musk combined with her tropical, light perfume entered his head, his erection swelled even faster.

"Would you like some help?" he asked softly, giving her a playful wink.


	9. Chapter 9

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

Her eyes opened to slits and she sighed again as if on the edge of bliss. The message was unclear, so he moved around to the right side of the bed, sitting down to remove his shoes and socks. Back on his feet but faced away from her, he took off his blazer, shirt and belt, listening to her breathing which slowed as her attention pulled away from her self-stimulation.

Until he unzipped his slacks and pulled them down, along with his boxers. As he lifted his leg to free himself from it, allowing his balls to swing loose briefly, she let out a small moan. She was definitely watching him undress.

After taking time to remove his pants and place them neatly on the nearby chair, he turned to face her. The pleasure she was providing herself intensified when her gaze fell onto his penis and she began to writhe beneath her own hand. Muscles all over her trim body flexed and released as her approaching orgasm intensified. His hard-on raged, demanding participation.

Nuzzling and kissing her warm belly, he darted his tongue out in a sporadic pattern, blowing soft breaths on her dampened skin. Then he stopped, realizing he hadn't been invited.

"More," she breathed. "Good."

He slipped his finger, then his hand, under the narrow strip of green fabric that lay over her hip and pushed it down her right thigh. His lips caressed where it had lain and moved closer to her muff. Understanding his intentions, she lowered her left leg and helped him remove the garment.

She'd shaved a little. It made him smile with the vision of her in her bathroom, preening for their weekend. She probably never shaved there, probably never owned a bikini that would require it. Looking up her body, he appreciated her smooth curves and soft skin, perfect for wearing scanty coverage.

_Someday, my luscious lover, I'll take you to Cabo and watch your sexy ass in a skimpy swimsuit as you wiggling-walk in front of me._

As she moved to resume her autoerotic caress, he blocked her hand and replaced it with his tongue tip. Her hips rose to meet him as she pawed at his ass and thigh, trying to get him to move closer.

"Gimme…" she said. The word was more breathed than spoken.

She wriggled around so much that he decided to desist, hoping she'd calm down enough to let him continue. When he glanced at her face, he found her staring at his member like a starving woman.

That was a new one on him. _Annie and I never…we just…_ He felt a little awkward to think about it. He'd read the Karma Sutra years before – out of curiosity as a virgin adult man faced with the unlimited possibilities with his soon-to-be young bride – but he and Angela had just…

The mind boggled a moment.

_Really, Lisbon? You're more adventurous than I understood._

Well, whatever Teresa wanted, Teresa would get. Anything her heart desired, he'd promised. And maybe he was flat out wrong about a history of sexual abuse. Maybe she wanted control so nothing could hold her back.

He knelt on the bed, and just as she raised her hand toward his crotch, he held her by the hips as he slid her off the nest of pillows. She gave a soft yelp but then relaxed as he lay down on his side next to her, bending his leg, offering his thigh as something to rest her head against if she needed. Then wrapping his arms around her waist, he drew her onto her side and drew her belly to his chest, her breasts to his stomach. When she bent her left leg, opening herself to him, he had no problem finding her hot nub again with his tongue. It was swollen and proud. He rubbed his five o'clock shadow on her inner thigh, smiling at the small whimpers that escaped her.

God, it was hard to concentrate as her lips engulfed him immediately. Her tongue swirled around his head, exploring the tip, velvet caresses that almost disabled him. Had he allowed his imagination to even consider what she'd do, he would have reread the Karma Sutra, learning Sanskrit if necessary!

He put his thoughts into exploring her, running his hand over her buttocks and inner thighs while still flicking her with his tongue tip. Teasing her skin with a vague touch, the proximity to her sensitive genitals, implying that his fingertips would invade openings in her body. Her muscles contracted in anticipation and he smiled as he stored the info. Yes, she _was_ adventurous.

The tip of his tongue insinuated its way into her folds, his chin pressing briefly on her clit. She gasped through her nose, halting a moment before renewing her ministrations. Considering she had a 'head' start on him, so to speak, he had to remember she was closer than he was. As romantic as the idea of simultaneous orgasm was, it rarely worked that way. He was experienced enough to recognize that. The throes of ecstasy did a number on one's concentration as a lover, centering attention on one's own frenzy. With a lot of work, it was possible to pace the timing, but it didn't make it any less wonderful if one lover's joy followed the other's, rather than at the exact same moment.

And the important part was her satisfaction. This beautiful woman deserved it after all he'd put her through over the years. And no doubt would put her through again in the future. Unintentionally, of course.

Besides, orgasms were a turn on. And his ego got a tremendous boost every time he reduced her to a quivering mass of raw emotion. He hoped by the end of the weekend he'd be the biggest egomaniac in the state. Bigger than California's Governor Hallenbright, even.

He stiffened his tongue and probed into her with it. That was a new use for his tongue which –although not rivaling Gene Simmons' in length – was almost freakish. Finally, a use for his physical oddity!

Her humming moan vibrated through his cock, causing tremors of delight up his root into his belly until she released him to wail softly. Her woman's bed squeezed him – he could actually feel the pressure and taste her love juices flow wherever they came from. Arching her back, she jerked her hips toward him, her bent leg pushing against the mattress. When her vag starting convulsing, he replaced his tongue with his middle finger, thrusting it rapidly as he suckled her clit in a pulsing manner.

_C'mon, Teresa! C'mon, my love! Explode!_

She cried out loudly between ragged gasps and curled up over the center of her orgasm, almost reaching over his hip as her release shook her entire body. She held on like she was grasping a life preserver in choppy seas. His cock pressed to her soft breast as she gulped huge lungs full of air between moans. He continued until she shifted her hips, closing off his access by his lips. He pumped his finger two last times, causing her to scream and dig her nails into him. When he removed his hand, he licked the wetness off of it before gently caressing her tight ass and smooth thighs as her breathing slowed.

"Patrick, Patrick, Patrick." She chanted like a mantra, deep and on the edge of inaudible.

Yes, there went his ego, soaring out the window toward the mountain peaks. Just another example of the many ways Teresa Lisbon had saved him over the years.

He kissed her soft, ivory skin before resting his head on the back of her thigh, watching as she recovered with closed eyes and slightly parted lips. Peace and satisfaction glowed from her face. She shifted until her head was low on his hip and her arm slung over his buttocks. Her other arm lay gracefully down her side, posed like a painter's model, while she twisted at the waist so his head could remain as it was. Smiling at her, he stroked her hair, caressing it away from that delicate face.

"Thank you, Patrick," she said, her voice a whisper. "I love you. I think I've loved you for years but was too stubborn, too afraid, too self-involved, to admit to myself – "

"You're not self-involved, my dear. That would be me."

She grinned. "Okay, I'll grant you that, 'cause you just proved it by turning this onto you."

Patrick couldn't help but chuckle with her. She was right, of course.

The smile faded a little as she continued her previous thought. "But I am those other things."

"You're also kindhearted, generous and empathetic. And sexy."

Typical Teresa; blushing deeply at a compliment.

She brought her left hand from her side, gently taking his softening dick in her grasp.

"I need to finish you," she said. She sounded woeful.

"I'm contented, Teresa," he said, raising up on his elbow and taking her by the wrist. "Perhaps in the morning."

"That's not right. After what you gave me, you should – "

"After being able to give you what I did, I've never been happier."

Their gazes locked. He imagined his expression to be that of a gleeful idiot while hers was stunned silence.

"You've had a very long day, my dear," he said, releasing her. "Made longer by having a visitor at your apartment until two this morning."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, _that_. It was like I was in the office, having you hanging around my couch." Then she grinned that special way she seemed to share only with him. He'd never felt more fortunate.

Relaxing against him again, she closed her eyes and released a contented sigh.

"Thank you again," she said.

"Thank _you_, my dear lady. You've made life worth living again."

* * *

**To be continued...**


	10. Chapter 10

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

Snowboarding lessons. Where the hell does he get these ideas?

She thought for sure she would break her neck, even on the small slope that ski school used for the lessons.

The first time she fell, he was very attentive and helped her back to her feet, just like the second and third time. By the fourth time, he'd started to laugh at her, although he still helped her up.

"Why did I even bother putting on makeup?" she growled, wiping the snow from her cheeks after her face-plant. She was certain her mascara was smeared all over her eyes and her blush was gone from the first time she'd fallen forward into the fluffy white stuff. There was one good thing about the cold air, anyway. It gave her some color to her cheeks. Although her frustration was upsetting her enough, no doubt her face was red even without the nippy temperatures.

"Why, indeed?" he asked, brushing slush off her thigh. "You have a perfect complexion and eyes that shine without the need for paint around them."

As she opened her mouth to defend her choices, he smacked her ass lightly but sharply before continuing to brush snow off her clothes. The unexpected sting caused her to jump and she would have fallen again if Patrick hadn't caught her. When he stabilized her over the board, he gave that grin he shared whenever his cheekiness pleased him.

She loved that grin too, even when she was pissed with him.

"Damn it, Jane, how come you haven't fallen once? You've done this before, haven't it?"

"Me? No, never. It's not my fault that I'm a better student than you."

The ski school instructor hurried down the hill on her board, asking if they were all right. Patrick assured her that they were but Teresa interjected.

"Is there another sport similar enough that it would be worth knowing before trying to learn this?"

The instructor started but then smiled kindly. "Knowing how to surf would help maybe a little, I guess. Probably a little."

Teresa glared at Patrick. "Of course it would." Surfing had been one of his hobbies in his previous life, back when he lived in Malibu and made gobs of money as a 'paranormal personality'.

Again he graced her with a cheeky grin. This time she pushed him over. As he yelped and plopped into the snow, she pointed her board downhill like they'd been taught in the first part of class.

"Let's go," she said, determined to do it right. To her great relief, she made it all the way to the bottom without falling once.

* * *

**To be continued...**


	11. Chapter 11

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

They'd lost the reservation at the restaurant.

Patrick was pissed. He made it on Tuesday and confirmed it on Friday but when they arrived for their seating, the maître d' could not find it. After showing his phone records to confirm he'd twice spoken with the correct place, Patrick got them to agree the error was theirs and requested they do their best to accommodate them. Being the most exclusive restaurant in the Lake Tahoe region, they assured him they'd try, but frankly they were booked solid.

Hurriedly the staff set up a small table, but it was in a dark area between a bussing station and the kitchen doors. It was unacceptable, and because of the look of disappointment on Teresa's face, he decided they should just leave.

Humiliated, he took her hand, retrieved their coats from the coat check, and walked quickly out of the restaurant. They stood in silence as the valet retrieved his car, Teresa watching him with a worried expression, he looking everywhere but at her. When the car arrived, he held the door for her, tipped the valet – it wasn't his fault, after all – and got into the driver's seat. He took a deep breath and reached over to pat her hand.

"My dear, I'm sorry... I don't know what happened."

"It's okay, Patrick. This is beyond your control. Don't blame yourself."

Finally he looked at her. She blessed him with one of her sweet smiles.

"Let's just go back to the hotel," she said. "Maybe we can pick up hamburgers on the way. I'm sure there's fast food around here. Even snooty people like a good greasy burger once in a while."

He laughed, trying to keep the scoffing quality from it. Hamburgers! Next she'd suggest bear claws for dessert.

"Room service, I think," he said, starting the motor.

As he put the car in gear, she shrugged. "Okay. Just so long as we can split another tiramisu like last night."

"That sounds perfect."

Again, that sweet smile of hers. Maybe this would work out after all.

* * *

As he drove out of Truckee and back toward the resort, the sight of a grocery store inspired him, so he pulled into the lot. Their suite had a fully equipped although small kitchen; he'd _make_ dinner.

"Wait! What?" she asked, looking around the parking lot. "Why are we here?"

"We're going shopping," he said.

They drew furtive stares when they entered, dressed as they were in date clothes. Patrick permitted himself a tight smile; that ruby red sheath dress she wore was worth staring at. Her high heels tapped along the hard tiles, sounding like a fast paced metronome as Patrick grabbed a cart and led the way into the produce department. He tucked his tie down and buttoned his sports jacket, before examining the spaghetti squash, looking for a small one for the two of them.

"Jane, what are you doing?"

"Selecting a vegetable. Would you pick what kind of salad you want? I'm partial to arugula or butter lettuce myself, but I doubt there's much choice available."

She mumbled something under her breath about "grocery shopping on a Saturday night being for only the lonely and married people" as she left for the misted cooler. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her walk away, her slender legs seeming longer than her petite frame could comprise of. They were good legs. This morning he discovered that they really held on tight.

After selecting a gourd, he brought the cart closer to her. Her gaze shifted between iceberg and romaine, her expression was somewhat hopeless. As he suspected, there wasn't much else.

"Romaine," he said, just above a whisper.

If she heard, she didn't acknowledge it, instead just placing it in a produce bag. She looked and seemed startled to see him there, looking a little confused, like waking from a dream.

"Trust me on this," he said with a wry smile. "Life with me is not ever going to follow a straight line."

She scoffed and placed the lettuce in the cart. "Like you need to tell me this?"

"Just thought I'd remind you." He gave his 'thanking the audience' smile and proceeded to the fruit stand where he chose a fortuitously ripe mango. "Oh, could you get a small red onion?"

Twenty minutes later, they stood in the checkout with a cart containing steaks, frozen Brussels sprouts, squash, balsamic vinaigrette, parsley, olive oil, romaine, mango, red onion, butter, a bottle of dry red, and a small bar of dark chocolate. Patrick had charmed her into a playful frame of mind, and now she was hanging on his arm flirtatiously, granting him a continuous smile that made him proud to be hers. For the first time in a long while, he was feeling pretty 'alpha male', something he had little to no interest for in the past. Usually he was contented with being the smartest man in the room. Being virile seemed unimportant unless one is trying to make babies.

The thought gave him pause.

Oh, yes, he would give a lot to see Teresa gravid with his child…

* * *

**To be continued...**


	12. Chapter 12

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

_Sorry, this is largely unedited. I'm running out of time._

_Ooops... little time jump there... this is Teresa's POV during the shopping trip explaining why she's hanging on his arm (like "Ta MAR ah" in "Fugue in Red")_

_***SPOILER ALERT***_

_So sorry: it was brought to my attention that I've transgressed the written and unwritten law by stating what happened in There Will Be Blood. Try to skip over the bit marked as such. My sincerest apologies!_

* * *

As he turned the cart down the candy aisle, she hesitated before following. She couldn't quite figure out what had changed.

Oh, he was just as sexy, just as playful, just as irreverent as he'd once been. As dismayed as she'd been that he was behind the threat to the Governor, she had to admit she really wasn't that surprised. A vague warning that someone knew exactly what the Governor was doing was nothing compared to stealing items from evidence lockup in order to make bad guys expose their guilt. Was there that much of a difference?

The little voice in her head that had kept her on the straight and narrow for the past forty years of her life screamed at her. _Yes, there is. The latter was in service of justice so maybe a little rule-bending was in order. The former was so you would be free to spend the weekend in bed screwing. You're looking for an excuse to mix up another batch of Jane-flavored Kool-Aid._

The heat rose up her neck and into her face again, and she pursed her lips. It had been a helluva weekend, that was for certain. She'd had her experiences with one-night stands and even developed a few longer-term relationships that involved sex, but never before had she 'gone away' with a man. It was no surprise that Patrick did it right, sparing no effort and no expense. It couldn't be any clearer to her that this trip meant a lot to him. So maybe just a little sip of Kool-Aid was okay.

And it wasn't just sex. They could have done that in her apartment. Okay, yes, the sex was fantastic. As passionate as a meaningless fuck in the backseat of a Volkswagen while at the same time as tender and emotional as a gentle kiss in a fairytale. Only Patrick Jane could be both those extremes at the same time.

And only Patrick Jane would court her in that unique, elegant way that he approached all challenges. Start big and end bigger. Snowboarding lessons? Fondue in the penthouse restaurant? Hot stone massage? It was like he was building up the show for its grand finale.

When they first met, he was like the class clown that everyone knew had troubles with bullies after school. Occasionally, Teresa looked at him and even heard strains of that Smokey Robinson song about clowns only crying when there was no one around. When she got to know him better, she realized it was deeper than that. Not just sadness, but despair on the verge of actual madness. Somehow he was holding on, digging his heels in and refusing gravity, but slowly he was slipping into that dark pit beneath his toes.

And that disastrous interlude with Lorelei Martins! All that time holed up in his Aerie, making and reading lists. Creating charts. Examining his past ten years over and over again. Who could withstand that kind of self-scrutiny? Everyone does things he's not proud of, and for the sake of preventing insanity under the weight of guilt, everyone forgives and forgets his own transgressions. But not Patrick. In his desperation to catch Red John, he opened the book to his past and scrutinized every right and wrong move he'd ever made.

Including the first and second time he'd ingested poison. She almost slugged him the second time he'd done it, not sure if the expressed shame during his confession was real or not.

***SPOILER ALERT***

_But come to think of it, that was when the first phase of change began. He withdrew from her, pushing her away, as though the drug-induced introspection had caused him to realize something unbearable about himself and his life. He pulled back from all the team for a while until Lorelei Martins completely betrayed him by not only refusing to tell him who Red John is but then trying to kill the man who could._

_Then Red John killed her, and Patrick coldly, chillingly said she got what she'd deserved._

***SPOILER ALERT***

As suddenly as he had withdrawn, he was back. When he found out Grace was struggling with the memorization aspects of her class in Los Angeles, he drove all the way down to coach her on his memory palace techniques. When Cho began delving into a cold-case in San Francisco, Patrick volunteered to review the details with him. Cho asked why he was suddenly volunteering; the answer was simply that he wanted to be helpful. It led to a breakthrough in the case which was later solved.

She had no idea how he ended up helping Rigsby, but their relationship thawed suddenly. She suspected it had something to do with Van Pelt's return from L.A..

And with her? He spent less time in his Aerie and more time in her office. Chatting comfortably, like they did in the old days. Speculating about the rumored merger between CBI and Narcotics Enforcement. Talking about cases other units were working on. Debating whether or not Candy Peep Chicks had any actual flavor. Anything that came to mind. Like he'd decided that everything that had gone wrong in the last year no longer mattered.

She drank the Kool-Aid then too, never bringing up how hurt she'd been.

Then after a month he asked her to dinner and the jazz bar, and nothing was the same again.

She roused from her revelry to find him juggling three jars of caramel ice cream topping in his hands. _Literally_ juggling them. Throwing them into the air and making them dance in a precise rhythm like a professional juggler would handle chainsaws.

"Oh, that has disaster written all over it," she said, woefully. "If you drop one, it's going to make a mess! Put those down!"

He stopped watching them, instead grinning at her as he placed them, rapid-fire, one, two, three, back on the shelf. Raising one eyebrow, he looked around for something else to juggle and spied the dark chocolate bars. Picking up four, he started again, making her giggle. It was impressive when he shot them one at a time into the cart.

"One only, bad boy," she said, removing three and handing them back to him. He pouted a little but nodded as he placed them where they came from. With a smirk, she added, "A man of many talents."

He glanced directly at the security camera domes in the ceiling before giving her a light peck on her lips. "I do try to keep you entertained, even when I'm being a bad boy." His voice was low and full of promise as he nuzzled her face for only a moment before moving away.

She thought her knees were going to give out.

_God, he's so hot. I've had more sex in the past week than in the previous year and he's making me want him again._

Sometimes being a master manipulator was a good thing.

He smiled and offered his arm, which she took gladly, needing to hold herself up.

"Let's go make dinner," he said.

* * *

_**To be continued...**_


	13. Chapter 13

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

She was still holding his arm as they approached her car in the store parking lot. Not because she still had to but simply because she wanted to.

Once again, like a perfect gentleman, he held the door for her as she settled into the passenger seat. After he closed it, she heard him pop the trunk and felt the light thumps as he stowed the groceries. Then he came past her door again. When she met his eye, he pointed to the cart and then away, indicating he was returning it to the corral. She nodded with comprehension and watched him leave.

So far this evening had somewhat boggled her mind. Three times in the past hour, she let him help her into the car. She never allowed a guy to do that. It was sexist.

And she was letting him drive! _Her_ car and she was letting him drive!

The thing that boggled her mind the most? She was enjoying it immensely.

As he disappeared around the SUV parked in front but one space over from them, she looked around the lot which was mostly empty. There was a minivan two spaces over, pulled through the parking space so it was technically facing the wrong way on the other aisle. A few more spots away, a pickup truck loomed with big mudder tires and a lift kit, looking gnarly and badass. She smiled to herself, thinking of the challenge she'd have getting into the driver seat of such a tall off-road vehicle. And in the dress she was currently in? Ha! It would never happen. Not without lifting the hem up until it was around her waist!

She laughed internally. Wouldn't Patrick just love to see that!

Movement caught her eye. A young mother came past, pushing one of those fancy "kid friendly" type shopping carts, the kind with the primary-colored plastic panels to make it look like a race car. There were adorable twin boys, about the age of two, in the seats. As Mom stopped by the minivan, she unstrapped the kids and lifted one into a booster seat in the back of the van. Evidently he didn't want to go. He started kicking and thrashing, pointing back to the cart. Mom's lips thinned as she pressed them together in an effort to control her frustration.

Teresa looked back at the cart just in time to see the other boy climb down and run away. She yelled and threw open her door, trying to get out, but the seatbelt stopped her, throwing her back. Just as she finally released it, there was a loud, long screech of tires, mixed with the scream of the mother. Teresa wanted to stopper her ears to prevent hearing the meaty thud.

Instead there was deathly silence a moment before the young mother started yelling "Oh thank God! Oh thank God!"

Patrick appeared in front of Teresa's car, big grin on his face as the runaway twin squirmed in his protective hug. The driver of the station wagon that had locked up its brakes sat with his face buried in his hands.

Teresa and the mother raced up to Patrick and the baby, the woman taking her son in her arms and hugging him.

"Oh, thank God! Oh thank God!" The mother squeezed her boy, staring wide-eyed at Patrick.

The car driver got out and staggered to the group, his face white as bleached paper. "That was so close, so close," he muttered before going behind Teresa's car and leaning on the back, gasping.

"Everything's fine," Patrick said, taking the wrist of the shaking mother and leading her to her vehicle. He tried to take the boy from her but she refused to let him go. Leaning over to Teresa, he whispered, "She's nearly hysterical. I'm going to try to calm her with a light trance but I can't do it with the child in her arms."

Teresa stared at him blankly. _What?_ This was all seeming so unreal. He was going to do _what_?

That's when she realized she was going hysterical herself. Pulling herself together, she took a deep breath and went into Boss Lisbon mode. "Ma'am?" she said softly but firmly, the voice she used at murder scenes when interviewing family members afterwards. "Ma'am? Your son is safe. We need to strap him into his car seat for the ride home, so you can put him to bed. _Please_, ma'am? Let me have him so I can put him safely in his seat."

The frightened woman succumbed to the tone of command and relinquished the boy just as the wagon driver started throwing up and moaning. Teresa went around to the other side of the van, opened the door and put the child in his seat. Fortunately he cooperated more than his brother. After making reassuring noises at the boys, she returned to where Patrick had the mother by her wrist.

"Breathe in," he said softly, then paused. "Then out. Just relax. It all turned out okay. Breathe in…"

Since he seemed to be making progress in calming her, Teresa went to the driver who was spitting bits out of his mouth. He smelled like cheap whiskey and urine. She had no doubts he'd pissed himself.

"Dammit! You puked on my car!" she groaned, pointing to the chunky liquid on her bumper. "If I had my badge, I'd arrest you, you bastard."

He looked at her face in surprise, and then took in her tight dress under her open coat and the strappy high heels. "You're a cop? What are you? Under cover?"

Against her will, her hand clenched into a fist, but she released it with a growl.

"You're drunk and shouldn't be driving. It's lucky for you that my boyfriend is-is-is…quick on his feet!"

_Oh my God, did I just call him my boyfriend?_ She sure hoped Patrick didn't hear that.

"Yeah…" the guy sighed, leaning against her car and hanging his head. "That was so close."

"Get off my car!"

He straightened with fear in his eyes. "Yes, ma'am."

"Where do you live? Is there someone who can come and get you?"

"Say what?"

She could see the wheels start to spin through his half-panicked, half-drunken stupor. Turning on her heel, she hurried to his car and removed the ignition key. He caught up and grabbed her arm, pulling her back roughly.

In a worried voice, Patrick said, "Oh dear…" If he said anything else, it was drowned out by the man's screams of pain from what Teresa called the Cho Pin, since it was Cho's favorite hold to subdue a subject, leaving him bent over double.

"Patrick, call the police. This man's drunk, disorderly, and driving under the influence."

She allowed the man to drop to his knees but didn't otherwise let him move until the police arrived.

* * *

**To be continued...**


	14. Chapter 14

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

His Brussels sprouts were still edible, despite being partially thawed. Patrick was grateful.

Not that he was glad he was forced to use _frozen_, but he had to make do, especially when Teresa said it was her favorite side dish. Fresh would have been so much better but it wasn't available. Besides, he was certain that what she really liked was the butter sauce so the frozen was good enough.

What irked him most was being delayed in returning to the hotel. They could have thawed completely! And the romaine could have been ruined.

Cops and their paperwork. Nobody was killed or even hurt. Well, except a sprained wrist from Lisbon's takedown. The little boy was fine. Mom would be more careful in future because she really loved her children. The impaired driver was terrified into never driving drunk again, especially after the special talking-to that Patrick gave him later. Everything was fine. Was it worth risking his fabulous dinner over?

As he placed the dirty dinner plates in the sink, he listened to Teresa on the phone with room service ordering the tiramisu in a low, sexy voice, like she was answering a twenty-dollar-a-minute, 1-900 sex line.

She did love her chocolate.

He smiled to himself as he began to rinse the plates to put into the dishwasher for housekeeping. It was nice that she loved him too. She was quite a woman. Apart from being physically gorgeous, there was such beauty in her personality and her heart and … oh, everything about her. Competent, intelligent, strong, compassionate, capable…why had he been afraid for so long?

Because Red John was a complete and utter bastard. Because Red John was evil embodied. Because now Teresa was more of a target than ever. Because Teresa was –

He jumped as her arms slid around his waist and her breasts pressed against his back.

"Domestic Jane," she said. Her voice purred with amusement. "Next we'll have to get you pregnant."

"I'd be honored to carry your baby," he said lightly. "For one thing, making medical history would give me all the attention I could possibly want."

A chuckle escaped her as she rested against his back. She ran her hands up and down his chest and abdomen and then her small, delicate hand traveled lower, stroking his fly. It prompted a warm, fantastic response that raised the heat in his belly.

"My hero," she said. "Saved the baby. Comforted the mother. Fed the girl. What other feat of heroics will you perform tonight?"

"Oh…'hero' is such a large word." He held himself up against the sink and sucked air between his teeth. "And you'd better stop that, or we'll be too busy to answer the door when room service arrives. No tiramisu for you, my dear."

"I won't give up my dessert," she said with a laugh. Her hand joined her other one on his chest and she gave him a hug. When he moved to face her, she allowed it, smiling up at him. "Why, Patrick?"

He stooped to kiss her, cradling her head, devouring her sweetness.

What had he done that was such a big deal? He'd grabbed the child and hugged it. What was the choice? It was too awful to contemplate so it wasn't an option.

Then again, there was a lot to be said for impressing his woman. Instead of having to justify his behavior like she was usually forced to, she was openly and completely proud of him. While giving report to the local police about the incident, Teresa's glowing account of the event was making him blush. Him!

Okay, he didn't blush a lot, but enough that he couldn't figure out why his face felt funny. It was a new experience.

Of course, it had been a weekend of firsts, hadn't it? Never would he voluntarily get a massage had he not overheard Teresa once speak enviously to Grace Van Pelt about Marlena in Processing having a hot stone massage. Snowboarding lessons? He learned better on his own.

And at lunch, the server asked when the wedding had been, thinking they were a honeymooning couple. Even he and Annie had never been asked that.

Of course, he and Annie never had a honeymoon, so that would explain part of it. Not an official one, anyway. They were dumb, penniless youngsters when they started out, struggling to survive without their carnie family safety net.

_This_ was feeling like a honeymoon. And talk about firsts! Some of their positions that morning alone…whew!

Teresa broke off the kiss, smiling up at him as she continued to caress his back.

"Why, Patrick?" she asked again.

"Why what, my dear?" he asked in return, running his hands over that gorgeous dress. _Is she wearing any underwear?_ The thought that she might not be was delicious, although even his darling Teresa wasn't that adventurous. At least, he didn't _think_ so…

"Why are we here?"

"Well…that's a rather large question, isn't it? I know that for you as a Christian, your philosophy states that you're here to – "

"You know what I mean."

"Why have I suddenly turned into an insatiable horndog? Well, that dress has a lot to do with – "

"Why did you ask me out? Why did you suddenly stop being…?" A slight blush came to her as she sought the right words.

"A cold, aloof bastard?"

She smirked and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Your words, not mine. So tell me, my heroic lover."

"It's both a long and short story." His fingertips danced lightly over her ass and up, sensing her undergarment. Still, the speculation was a turn on he'd remember more than anything else that weekend. Something to carry him until the next time he could talk Teresa into coming away with him.

"So tell me the short story, and if I like it, you can tell me the long one."

"Okay. The short story is that… that I came to my senses and realized that I was throwing away the chance to live the life I was mourning because Annie died."

Teresa looked hurt for a moment. "Who is 'Annie'?"

"Angela. Annie was her nickname. Just like your brothers call you Reese, Angela's family and I called her Annie."

She nodded and removed her arms from around his neck. Her smile faltered, her expression tinged with sadness as she took his hand and led him to the living area.

"So tell me the long story," she said, sitting on the sofa and patting the cushion next to her.


	15. Chapter 15

**_I want to thank the fabulous Cumberland River Relic for serving so capably as a beta reader. Y'all need to go over and read "Director Cho's Retirement Dinner" s/8540658/1/Director-Cho-s-Retirement-Dinner It's a fantastic story that you will enjoy, I have no doubts!_**

* * *

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

Teresa watched Patrick draw a deep breath as though gathering his strength. Another delay tactic; he removed his tie and draped it neatly over the coffee table like it could be part of the décor.

As he stalled, she realized what _really_ bothered her about his 'short story'. In the ten years she and Patrick had known each other, he rarely mentioned Angela Jane directly and when he did it was always as "my wife", like her name was something he was no longer privileged to speak.

Okay, maybe he called her Angela once or twice in her presence. If he did, it was rare enough that Teresa couldn't remember it.

But "Annie"? Never.

She patted the sofa again. Patrick hitched his slacks and sat down. He settled into the corner, pulling out the bulky accent pillow and putting it between them.

_Oh this is going to be heavy._ She stared at the pillow a moment and then met his gaze, swallowing the dread that congealed as a large lump in her throat. _He's building a wall of things to protect himself behind._

Yet, just as she thought it, he gave a tight smile and removed the pillow, tossing it over the back of the sofa.

"C'mere," he said, opening his arms, inviting her in. His smile was kinder as she moved closer. When she leaned in, he placed her back to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. He was warm and comforting, just like when she woke in his arms. "What exactly do you want to know, Teresa?"

"I… I'm trying to understand what changed. You've kept us all at arm's length for such a long time. You've always railed against the merest suggestion of having a guideline, much less the idea of wearing a tie or filling out a police report." Joking, she added, "Frankly, I'm a little surprised you didn't ditch me in that parking lot, using my Charger as a getaway car."

She tilted her head back so he could see her smile. After he laughed, he kissed the crown of her head.

"I considered it briefly," he said lightly. "It has always amused me that a woman who complains so vigorously whenever I drive more than three miles per hour over the limit should own a vehicle with a Hemi V8 that could outrun most police cars."

"I like having power," she said. "That doesn't mean I have to use it."

He placed his cheek where he'd kissed her and they sat quietly a moment until she looked up at him again. Again he sighed deeply before speaking.

"Teresa, we both know it's time that I man up. We keep getting so close to catching Red John, yet he keeps slipping away. And every time he does, my anger, my… disappointment… creates more and more evil thoughts on what I'll do to him when I catch him. Finally I realized that…I'm becoming Red John."

She pulled away, turning to stare at him. This was crazy talk! "Patrick, you are not like Red John!"

"Hear me out, my dear." He held up his hands, palms out. Suppliant gesture, he'd once called it. Placating, apologizing, pleading. "When Lorelei said that I'm just like him, especially the relentless manipulation, I thought she was talking about how we both take advantage of human nature as a means to an end. And that's probably what she meant…except that I realized something else I was doing that was just like him… I stopped thinking of people as living, breathing, hurting human beings and thought only of them as tools for me to get what I want. You… and Cho and Rigsby and Van Pelt…? I was trying to convert you into my own little army of acolytes. It was going beyond just using your talents for my own goals."

The truth burned in her heart. Yes, his obsessive behavior had gone beyond 'odd little Jane' to 'don't expose your children to this man'. She and the team all had been straining against his control for so long, it had started to feel normal to automatically wonder what he was up to. There was always a scheme behind his requests. They accepted that. And yet, somehow she and Cho and the rest of them always ended up doing it his way, even without knowing the end goal. It was a foregone conclusion that he'd get his way. Accolytes? No, more like performing bears.

"Lorelei got what was coming to her because she and Lennon and all the Red John disciples we've met over the years thought about only one thing: what Red John had promised them – relief from their internal demons. Freedom from the pain of living their personal hells. I think the reason I felt such attachment to Lorelei – "

Teresa recoiled at the admission, even though it wasn't new knowledge. Patrick had said once before that he'd felt something for Red John's former whore. It was painful to hear the first time he said it, but their relationship was different then. They had an… understanding.

"No!…Teresa, listen to me. You asked me to let you in. Please realize that it's not going to be an idyllic walk through manicured estate gardens. There are dark alleys in me that you probably wouldn't enter without all three of your Glocks."

She stared at her hands clenched into fists, willing her body to let the muscles loose. It put up a fight but at last her fingers moved, flexed, allowing blood to flow back into them.

"You're right, Jane. I demanded that you let me in….Please…continue." It was hard to speak, but on a deep level she meant every word. She needed to hear what he had to say.

"The reason I felt attachment to… her…was because I thought…in madness, I thought…I could make her my first disciple."

She drew her breath quickly, surprised by the sharp pain in her heart. _No, Patrick! You've never been evil…_

"Yes, it's true, Teresa."

She damned his mentalism at that moment, reading her mind, responding to a thought she hadn't spoken.

"I was insane enough to try gathering henchmen. I lost what modicum of integrity I had left, and my desperation allowed me to justify all sorts of things. I knew you were in love with me just enough that you would eventually fall into my madness, but you'd fight me if I went too fast."

She swallowed hard. Yes, she probably would fall into madness. When he was gone to Vegas for those six months, she was certain it would happen soon.

Her hands were clenched against her will again. Breathing became difficult. When he reached out to grasp her wrist, she evaded him. He succeeded anyway with a hold that was gentle yet irremovable.

"When Lorelei betrayed me, I realized the truth of my world, what I was trying to do and how I was failing. I have real friends in my life, whether or not I'd asked for them. I have real _love_ in my life, even though Annie and Charlie had been taken from me. I also realized if I gave that up, Red John would have won. Again.

"And when I reconciled myself with that idea, I realized it was a victory for me of sorts. And to bring you into my life was another. After I decided that I had to let myself love you fully, it suddenly didn't matter what it means in my war with Red John.

"To openly love you will anger Red John. That really bothers me. Once before he tried to punish me using your death at my hand and he knows I wouldn't do. What will he do now?"

"We'll handle that, Patrick," she said, covering his hand with her own. "We both know that Red John makes mistakes and we're closer than ever to catching him."

He smiled that tight smile again and nodded.

"Maybe we are, but I don't care about that as much as I care about being a good man for you, Teresa. At the moment, my life is safe from him because I still amuse him, but when he finds out that we've moved to the next level of our relationship, you'll become his singular focus."

He must have felt the shiver run through her because he pulled her into his chest, holding her tightly.

"I have little doubt that Red John already knows things have changed between us. If so, he's making his plans, but I'm going to enjoy this peace while we still have it. You know as well as I do that the worst is yet to come. I have to be man enough to face it so this will be over. I want to marry you, Teresa, and live a real life again."

Tears came to her eyes instantly and she held him in return.

"I want to marry you too, Patrick. And I want to have a family with you. If it's too late for me to get pregnant because… because of my age…we will adopt."

He took her by her upper arms and pushed her away to look in her eyes, his green-gray eyes boring into her, smiling a special kind of glee. Then he kissed her deeply.

When they broke apart, he breathlessly grinned at her. "Reno is only twenty miles away."

Her jaw dropped open. Married? They'd been lovers for a week!

_But he's been my soul mate for years._

"Let's go."

* * *

**_To be continued_**


	16. Chapter 16

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

It wasn't ideal, but at the moment, Patrick didn't care. His Teresa was beside him.

The less than ideal part was she wore a rented wedding dress, nervously squeezing and releasing his forearm while the minister spoke the script in a bubbly, well-practiced voice. Someday, they'd do it right, with an elegant dress and the flowers and all the frippery and finery, pomp and circumstance. When Red John was gone, the entire world would be a different place. Sunshine would permeate every corner of their lives after that bastard was dead, but for now, they'd be contented with the barest minimum to mark their official commitment.

When asked the traditional question, Patrick stared into his lover's eyes and sincerely, richly said "I do." When she was asked, the love in her eyes gleamed with her happy response.

No matter what happened in the future, at that moment a dream was fulfilled. Teresa married him.

Still grinning, they left the chapel arm in arm and headed toward the car.

"Sorry about the rings," he said softly.

"Oh, don't apologize to me," she said, scoffing. She looked at the cubic zirconia stone mounted to a very thin gold band next to another band of the same width. It was the best that the chapel gift shop had to offer. He expected an expression of disappointment but instead her face beamed. "I love it entirely, Patrick." A little chuckle escaped her. "But you know Van Pelt is going to give you hell about this. The first thing she'll ask is why you couldn't find a better gumball machine."

He laughed too. "That'll be Kimball's question. Grace will be thrilled first and then ask if you're pregnant."

"Yes…well, I'll have a chat with my doctor and let you both know about the possibility of that second point."

He pressed the button on the key fob and opened the passenger side door. Once again a slight twist came to her face that always accompanied the gesture.

"Forgive me. I'm old-school," he said, dipping his head slightly, as he held the door.

"It's going to have to stop sometime," she said.

"Oh, it will. Give me fifteen or twenty years…"

Her lips pursed as she fought back the smile. He gave up his most charming in return, which burst her smile through her self-imposed restraints.

"Get in," she said, gesturing towards the driver's side. "The tiramisu is waiting in the fridge for us back at the hotel."

"Ah! Yes," he said, posing dramatically. "Chocolate, whipped cream, lady fingers, a bottle of wine, and sex. All the sweet things in life are back at the hotel."

Before she could respond, he closed her door and went around the vehicle, climbing in. He took her left hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles.

"I _will_ replace these with something more appropriate, my dear. When we return to Sacramento, we can shop for rings that will enhance the most graceful hands in the state."

"I can't wear a ring for a while anyway. There's no hurry."

_She just had to say that._ It was truth but painful to face. He wanted to boast to the world that Teresa Lisbon found him worthy of marriage. It was one of the healthiest feelings of pride that he'd experienced in a long time, and he couldn't swipe the smile from his face.

She glanced at him and modestly diverted her eyes. "Actually, there is a bit of a hurry. I want Red John taken down as quickly as possible so I can change my name to Jane." Then she looked at him again under her long, lovely lashes.

Oh, he couldn't let that slide, in public or not. His lips captured hers which parted immediately, her tongue darting to meet his, wrestling around it with almost desperate intensity.

God, he loved her. How had he spent so many years close to her, being her friend, sharing hours of companionship, facing uncountable dangers, all the while resisting getting close? Now he couldn't get close enough to fill the void that had formed under his heart.

When they parted, he smiled lovingly. "Who needs tiramisu when I have access to that kiss?"

She chuckled and tilted her head, her starry eyes charming him in return. "I do, or I'll get grumpy. You don't want a grumpy bride on your wedding night, Mister Jane."

He inserted the ignition key and turned the motor over. "Oh, Missus Jane, I do not want that, unless it'll be fun to cheer you up again."

"Ah, making you work for it. That would be a change."

"Work for it? I've worked nearly every day of my life since I joined the CBI. When have I even taken a sick day?"

"So, ya gonna put in for PTO compensation now?"

He put the car into gear and pulled out of the lot.

"No, I figure the state of California has financial troubles enough without having to pay my actual worth."

* * *

They sparred playfully the entire twenty-five minute drive to the resort. As a jestful coup de grâce, Patrick had Teresa's car parked by the valet, to which she stuck out her tongue at him. As they walked through the lobby, he invited her for a nightcap at the bar, leading her to a booth at the far side of the room. He helped her remove her jacket, and around them, many heads turned to watch her settle into their booth. It was a strange mix of emotions in him, something he couldn't recall ever experiencing before: jealousy and pride. She was a very attractive woman and now they were bound together forever.

"Aren't you just the manly man, now?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I saw that. You huffed your chest."

"What? Me? I never. How lizard brained do you think I am?"

"Enough to huff your chest."

"Yeah, well, it didn't happen."

She rolled her eyes and picked up the drinks menu. He waggled his head a little and then nodded.

"Okay, yes, I did. That dress is an unfair weapon against a man whose libido has been suppressed for a very long time. I just want to take you upstairs and—"

"What can I get you from the bar?" the cocktail waitress asked as she approached and brought up her order pad.

He bit back the end of his sentence and looked at his _wife_ who giggled at him lewdly.

"What would you like, my dear? Chocolate martini?"

She scanned the drinks list and then bounced in her seat a few times, pointing. "That one, that one," she said, happiness lilting her voice. The server squinted to read it and nodded. Patrick stared at her hand as she wrote it out.

_Sweat…no, swelt… no… sweet…relief?_

"Oh! Sweet Release," he said. "What's in that?"

Again Teresa giggled. "You know what that is. You serve it up all the time." At least that's what she tried to say, but her laughter cut off the last three words. The waitress froze and didn't look at either one of them again.

Patrick fought the smile from growing on his lips as he interlaced his fingers and looked up innocently. "I'm game for that too."

The young woman turned and practically lunged away from their booth.

"Come sit here by me," Teresa said, moving over. When he did, she whispered, "It was a good thing that was on the menu. Otherwise I was going to have to be really offensive by ordering a 'Sex Against the Wall' or a 'Naughty School Girl', just to get her to go away."

"Or a 'Buttery Nipple'? 'Screaming Orgasm'?"

"Something like that."

He watched her expression with pride. "Try to tell me you didn't learn a thing or two from me over the years."

"How to get people to give me space? Oh yeah, Mister Jane, I learned a lot from you in that regard."

"How delightfully manipulative! I like it."

"Jane family tradition to uphold."

"Ooooh! You say that like it's a bad thing. Admit it. Being a jerk once in a while is a stress reliever."

"I've never been a jerk in my life, Patrick."

"What, never?"

"Never…I've been a _bitch,_ of course, but _never_ a jerk."

He chuckled and slipped his arm around her as he nuzzled her neck behind her ear. "Never a bitch, my dear."

"Ah! No lying, Mr. Jane."

"That's one of those 'is my ass fat in these?' kind of situations, isn't it? Or 'have you stopped beating your wife?' questions."

She moved away enough to grin at him. "No, I'm just saying that there's no point in denying I'm a bitch when I need to be."

Laughter was the only safe response, and fortunately for him, she was laughing too.

"C'mon, say it, Patrick. 'My wife is a bitch when she wants to be.' Say it."

"My wife is an incredibly beautiful woman who knows what she wants and how to get it."

"Coward," she said with a smirk.

"Absolutely. I've got you and I intend to keep you. Please don't press me to say hurtful things. There will be plenty of opportunities for me to insert my foot sideways up my own ass."

Their gazes locked a moment and she nodded.

"Yes, we both will, won't we? In some ways, we're two of the same kind."

He chuckled and buried his face in her hair again, placing soft kisses down her neck. "Naw, I could never wear that dress like you do."

She giggled and leaned into him. "Thanks for that visual."

* * *

_**To be continued... (like you couldn't tell, right?)**_

_**Oh, and sorry, C-17 is smut. Wait until C-18 if you're not into it. Sorry.**_


	17. Chapter 17

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

_Okay, this chapter is largely unedited, but the quickie kinda needed to be coarse and raw. Seriously, I hate writing sex scenes whether they're smut or poetic romantic interludes. I suck at both, which is an odd thing for a romance writer to admit._

_Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be. I'm just trying to get on wif it. KnowhatImean? The important chapters are coming up. Hope you enjoy this anyway._

* * *

The drinks put a nice gloss on their mood, not that they really needed help with making the evening shine. Despite how pleasant the intimacy was, Patrick was very happy when Teresa made Moon Eyes at him and suggested it was time for dessert.

They held hands as they crossed the lobby and rode the elevator to the eleventh floor. Patrick produced his key and placed it in Teresa's hand before scooping her up in his arms. She yelped in surprise.

"Must carry you over the threshold, my lovely lady. A symbol of how the groom stole the bride from her former life to her new life as a kidnap victim."

"Really?"

"Yes, it's true."

"So… there's a possibility of Stockholm Syndrome in my future?"

"Oh, you succumbed to that years ago, my dear."

"I fear you're right."

She unlocked the door and they kissed as he carried her into the suite. Then he smiled broadly at her and set her down, closing the door.

"See? Nice, huh?"

In reply she got a devilish look in her eye. Pushing him against the wall, she pulled him by the lapels into a stoop and kissed him hard. He pushed away from the wall as he lifted her to make the contact between their lips easier. Then he pushed her back against the wall as her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs wrapped around his waist. The heat of her body seared into his, particularly where her crotch pressed firmly against his aching hard on.

Teresa broke off the kiss. Breathlessly, she hissed in his ear. "Now, Patrick! I want you now!" She released him so he lowered her to the floor again. Frantically, she raised her dress to her waist in order to grab the waistband of her Spanx and pull them down. As she stepped out of them, he rushed to release his belt and zipper. She grabbed his slacks and pushed them off his hips. Then she turned around and bent over, leaning against the chair rail, presenting herself to him.

"Don't have to tell me twice," he murmured, grabbing her hips. He'd wanted to screw her since before they left for dinner when she stepped out of the bedroom wearing that dress. To know she wanted it as well, just capped the experience. When he found her sopping labia with his rock-hard penis, he speared into her, his deep groan blending with her higher pitched whine. Waiting for nothing, he moved in and out of her, his thighs slapping against her buttocks and thighs, the moisture at their joining point was slick and sensuous. She began doing pushups against the wall to meet him, but when she reached her hand to caress her clit, he growled.

"Allow me, my dear," he demanded, panting the words. Finding it was easy, swollen and firm under his finger. With his first caress, her sheath narrowed, grabbing his member like a fist. It surprised him with its intensity, jolting him into the first stages of his orgasm.

No! He couldn't let go yet! She needed…she needed…

Releasing long, wailing cries, she pumped onto him faster, her hot wet passage squeezing him like a vise. His balls contracted toward his body and, unable to stop, he stabbed into her deeply, positive he was going to tear her into two with the force of his thrust. A volcano of cum spewed, her already drenched passage flooding with his seed.

And yet, he continued his caress of her pleasure point and she kept crying out, contracting around him. He wished he could stay hard for her, doing his best to will it. It must have been enough because she pulled his hand away and gripped the wall trim again, panting to catch her breath.

"Oh, God, Patrick…why did I… wait so long?... I should have… jumped… you the first time you….. turned me on."

He grinned through his recovering breaths, closing his eyes and lolling his head back. Greedy to feel her soft skin, his hands continued to stroke her curves and that gorgeous dress. With a deep sigh, she moved away, causing him to pull out of her. She turned to face him, snuggling to his chest. Pride and love filled him as he held her in return. How would he have survived without this woman?

"I love you, Teresa," he whispered before placing a soft kiss on her head. "Now and always, my sweet lady."

"I love you, too, Patrick." She lifted her head and grinned at him. "Don't you want to know the first time you turned me on?"

It was like a 'ping' in his brain, something that happened every time he had to remember some vague, smoky fact that he'd learned in his distant past. "Er… May… 28th… 2004…I'd just left Minelli's office after showing him my new 'consultant' badge and had reported to you in order to start looking through the Red John files. You asked me if I was sure I wanted to do this, and for a moment I couldn't tell if you meant looking at the files, being a consultant or being close to you."

Her jaw dropped open.

"The answer was yes to all the possible options, so I said 'yes'….As I recall, anyway."

"H-h-how…?"

"Your pupils were as big as beach balls, my dear and you broke eye contact repeatedly, like you were denying something embarrassing. _And_ I could detect the faint unmistakable scent of feminine musk over your usual spicy perfume. But we both knew I was trouble in a three piece suit, so it's just as well that we remained professional."

Vexed, she squinted at him. "Jane the Brain. You know, you're _still_ trouble."

"Yes, I am, but I'm your _trouble_ now. Lucky you."

"Lucky me." Then she blessed him with a big smile and he knew she actually meant it.

* * *

They took a quick shower together, changed into their bed clothes (hers was yet another negligee, even prettier than the one she wore on Friday night) and met in the kitchen, determined to devour that wonderful dessert they'd been promising themselves since before they ran off to get married. They sat on the sofa, she reclining against him as he sat in the corner, feeding her bites of the tiramisu and whispering endearments into her ear. The fireplace was warm and wonderful. The moon was setting on the horizon.

His life had never seemed more perfect.

* * *

_**To be continued...**_


	18. Chapter 18

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

Teresa woke to the jarring ring of a telephone. She jerked and tried to sit up, but her husband's arms tightened around her, keeping her close to his bare chest. He felt so warm and comfortable that for a moment she almost succumbed to his hold. When it rang again, he mumbled unintelligibly under his breath.

"C'mon, Patrick, let me get it."

"No no no no no no no," he groaned, not opening his eyes. "It's bullshit. The world is bullshit. You need to stay right here." Then he wrapped his legs around hers and rolled their joined bodies onto her back, pinning her to the mattress. "No phone calls while I'm considering how to make love to you this morning."

Little Paddy stirred between them and she laughed. "C'mon," she said again. "Maybe it's work."

"No one knows we're here," he said, his voice expressing his protest against the abhorrent suggestion. "Besides, they'd call your cellphone and that's in your purse on the kitchen counter."

The phone rang again. She struggled to get loose but it was half-hearted. "C'mon, I can't breathe like this."

He sighed heavily and threw himself off her, lying prone with arms and legs spread. "You unman me, my dear."

"Oh, right," she grinned, sitting up and reaching toward the phone. "With your colossal ego?" She picked up the cordless handset from the nightstand and pressed the answer button. "Hello?"

"Hello, this is Jonas Raudonas, the manager for Silverstar Resorts. Is there a Mister Patrick Daniel Jane there, please?"

"Uhm… yes. One moment, please."

She looked over to find him watching out of barely opened eyes. Covering the handset, she whispered, "Hotel manager."

Patrick sat up and took the phone from her. "This is Patrick Jane." He listened intently for a moment, glancing at her with a little panic in his eyes. "Yes, sir, I did. I—"

He was evidently cut off brusquely because he looked irritated.

"Yes, fine, I'll be downstairs in ten minutes."

He pressed the off button and stared at the rumpled bed linens, lost in thought. "Dammit," he muttered.

"What's wrong?"

For a moment, he looked enraged as well as embarrassed, and when he tried to look at her, his gaze didn't quite meet hers.

"The hotel is saying I've passed them some bad bills. They want me to meet with the local police."

"What? That's ridiculous!"

"Yes, of course it is." He looked at the bedspread again, tapping his lips with his forefinger. How many times had she seen that over the years? That mighty brain was rearranging pieces, working the evidence, raking existing information for the solution.

"Let me come with you."

He looked at her, finally meeting her gaze. "No, I'll take care of this. You stay here and think about what you want for breakfast." He gave her a soft kiss and then departed for the bathroom. In a moment she heard the shower. She climbed out of bed and slipped on her negligee before donning her robe. Not knowing what to do, she began to pace the room.

This didn't make any sense. She knew he had money. Not from working as a consultant, of course. Lord knew, law enforcement wasn't a way to get rich. No, he still had money left over from his dubious career as a celebrity psychic, enough that he certainly wouldn't have to deal in counterfeit money. And besides, he had nearly zero expenses! He rented that cheap room in the residence hotel near HQ and he paid insurance on his Citroën. Oh and dry cleaning for his suits. When he didn't mooch food off other people, he won it (or lunch money) on the bets that people were foolish enough to make with him.

Besides, he wouldn't jeopardize his pursuit of Red John over phony hundred dollar bills. Maybe he didn't know they were fake.

She glanced around the room as though the answers were floating through the air and needed to be shot down. Her attention landed on his jacket hanging on the wooden chair valet stand by the closet and she was tempted to search it for his wallet. Yes, she was his wife now, but it didn't seem right to invade his privacy like that. Not that it would have stopped _him_, had their situations been reversed.

"You can look if it makes you feel better," he said. She jumped and turned to him where he stood nude in the door of the en suite bath, wiping his ear canal with a tissue. "But I know what money feels like. If I got even one bad bill, I'd know it immediately. Five would be impossible to slip past me. Besides, I supposedly gave the clerk nine others that were legit."

Fourteen hundred dollars? The amount staggered her. She knew it was an expensive resort but $700 a _night_?

He smiled and gestured at his jacket before disappearing into the bathroom. "Check. There are a couple more to look over. You know you want to."

She dug into his breast pocket, drawing out his wallet, a handkerchief, a paperclip and a blank piece of plastic the size and shape of a credit card. The last two items made her shake her head. _Damned con artist. Tools for breaking and entering._ Keeping the wallet, she put the other items back and sat on the seat of the valet. Opening the billfold, she started to draw out the contents but stopped, halted by the weird chill down her back. She looked at the bathroom again. His lean form created a flesh-colored shadow in the frosted glass of the shower door. In any other circumstance, she would have appreciated it more.

There were four more hundreds along with quite a few fifties and smaller bills. And a picture of her.

She recognized the image since there were very few pictures she allowed taken of her. It was cut out of a picture of her and her team taken at a CBI picnic a few years before. In the original, she was grinning at Patrick because of some hilarious quip he made right before the shutter tripped. Frankly Teresa liked the picture better with other people included. When it was just her, she felt she looked a little goofy.

He carried a picture of _her_ in his wallet? Why? He claimed he didn't need photos of people because his memory was sharp enough to always recall any image he deemed worth keeping. And why of her?

In the corner of the billfold compartment she found his wedding band from his marriage to Angela Ruskin Jane. When they made love, he never wore it, and she often wondered where he put it.

It would come out again. She choked up on the thought. It would come out and be put on his finger while the band he wore to signify his marriage to her would end up in this dark secluded corner of a leather pocket. For one completely irrational moment, it just didn't seem fair! _She_ was the one who had been at Patrick's side during the worst times of his life, even when he was being a complete ass and didn't deserve her loyalty. Yet, soon she would be relegated to a corner of his billfold.

Then she sighed. Surely it was better than being dead, like the woman who had presented him with the gold band currently residing there.

The water shut off in the shower, so she put the photo back and wiped the tear out of the corner of her eye using the sleeve of her robe.

_God damn you, Red John! Damn you to the seventh circle of Hell! You belong there!_

Struggling to control her breathing, she separated the smaller bills from the hundreds in order to return them to his wallet. When he came out, she was holding up a bill to a bedside lamp.

"You're right, Patrick. These are real. Non-sequential, watermarked and they all include the security strip."

"Told you so."

"Humph," she scoffed. "Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?"

"Please," he said as if it were a ridiculous idea. Then he grinned. "It's bad enough that I've taken a blow to my pride about this without having to be rescued by my badass cop wife."

She laughed, but his use of 'wife' stung. He would wear _her_ ring again! Like Teresa really wasn't entirely his wife! Her eyes watered before she could stop them. It was stupid to think that way! Completely unrealistic.

He took her into his arms and hugged her. It was comforting that her unhappiness didn't slip past him, although he misunderstood the cause. "It will be all right, my darling Teresa. The hotel made a mistake. Let me go straighten it out and then I'll take you to breakfast." He squeezed her before stepping back and placing a soft kiss on her lips. "And if I'm not back in half an hour, you can come rescue me. Okay?"

The silly grin on his face truly made her feel better. She nodded. And when he turned away, she patted his cute little tush lightly. He looked at her in surprise, and she winked bawdily.

"Take me, but not to breakfast, okay?"

He rewarded her with his mega-watt smile. "You sure know how to motivate a man."

* * *

While he finished getting dressed, she started the coffee pot and sat on one of the breakfast bar stools, looking over the room service menu. It didn't surprise her when he emerged wearing his three-piece. She suspected his choice of the 'old school' suit was a stage costume to throw people off their expectations, although she had to admit, he always looked great wearing it. It gave him a distinct air.

"All right, my dearest, I'll return just as quickly as I can. Keep that…" He gestured toward her body and grinned. "…that fantastic physique warmed up and waiting."

"With great anticipation," she said, leaning forward to meet his lips.

A long kiss later, she let him depart with a wistful smile and a small wave.

As she lowered her hand, the cubic zirconia stone ring caught her attention. She'd have to find a safe place for it when it wasn't on her finger. A jewelry case would be okay, but it seemed too…distant…detached. His solution was very clever actually. He didn't go anywhere without his wallet in his inside breast pocket, so it was always close to his heart. Then she smiled with the realization that she also had a piece of jewelry that she kept close to her heart: the gold cross her mother had given her so long ago.

Stepping down from the barstool, she started for the bedroom when something on the floor by the door caught her eye. It was Patrick's room key. She'd dropped it in her rush to jump his bones. With an irrepressible grin, she crossed to pick it up. Never one to keep souvenirs of any kind, she decided that for once she'd keep the key as a special reminder.

Not that she'd ever forget that weekend.

When she returned from the bedroom with her mother's cross necklace, she heard the door knob rattle. She grinned and pulled open the door.

"So…don't have your ke—"

To her great shock, it wasn't Patrick.

"S-s-sir…" she stammered. "What are you doing here? How did you kn—?"

The man stepped in, staring hard. As he closed the door behind him, his hand came up, holding a Taser. There was a click and every muscle in her body contracted, strangling the scream on her lips.

* * *

**To be continued... (It would be cruel not to...)**


	19. Chapter 19

**_Once again, the wonderful Cumberland River Relic has proven an insightful and supportive Beta reader. Thank you for your help, CRR!_**

* * *

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

Patrick pressed the elevator call button and rocked back on his heels with impatience, playing with the room key in his pocket. He had no idea where his was but when he spotted Teresa's on the nightstand, he grabbed it, hoping she didn't decide to go anywhere.

This really was ridiculous. There was nothing wrong with those 100s. He'd gotten them from the riverboat casino on the Sac River earlier that week. Casinos were very careful with their money, no matter what the denomination, because gambling is the best way to get rid of dirty money. Or it used to be. Bad money in exchange for good chips, an hour passes, good chips into a different window for good money. The Goodfellas didn't care much for that and put safeguards in place as word spread of the scam.

But even after the Mob lost control of the casinos, the paranoia surrounding the vulnerability remained. So Patrick always trusted casinos to have legit hundreds.

The elevator arrived, but much to his dismay, it was crowded, almost too crowded for him to enter. He wanted to get this over with. Teresa – his lovely elfin wife – was waiting for him, no doubt wanting to try something else she'd read in Cosmo, although at this point he would have been quite happy with a simple missionary position again. Patrick excused himself and politely forced his way onto the car.

He almost wished he hadn't. Apart from the aggravation of listening to a kid who started screaming at the sight of Patrick, someone in the car had dumped strong aftershave over himself, making the confined space reek with cheap scent. The only thing that saved them all from suffocation was the frequency that the doors opened for stops, allowing air to refresh the car. One person got off on the ninth floor, another on seven. The car also stopped on six but no one got on or off. Two people got off on five, thankfully taking the kid and the source of the cologne bomb with them. The other nice part about that was there was more room in the car and the snowboarder standing behind Patrick stopped banging his board into Patrick's Achilles tendon.

On the third floor, two more people got off but then stopped the doors from closing when they realized they were on the wrong floor. The Office Center was what they desired and it was on two, where they stopped again.

Finally on the lobby level, he and the snowboarder got off together, the boarder went left as Patrick went right. It struck him as odd because the fastest way to the slopes was the direction Patrick turned.

Something was odd about the whole elevator ride, but between the stench and the screams, it was hard to concentrate.

He rubbed his eyes, still burning and itching. Retrieving a damp paper towel from the restroom, he placed over his eyes to alleviate the sting. It would leave a bad impression on the police if he looked like he'd been smoking dope, and he wanted to minimize anything that might make him appear suspicious. Fortunately the trick worked.

* * *

When he reached the front desk, he found one clerk and a very long line of people checking out of the hotel. This truly was getting ridiculous. He walked around the queue control barricades and interrupted the transaction between the clerk and the hotel guest.

"Excuse me, but have the police been called yet?" he said loudly, putting as much arrogance into his tone as possible. "I demand to see the manager. I've never been so insulted in all my life. Imagine the kind of theft that takes place here with people less diligent than myself!"

The clerk stammered, looking back and forth between the woman in front of him and Patrick Jane.

"Sir, I'll call Mr. Novotny in just a moment, and security as well."

"No, I want to talk to the manager Jonas Raudonas. Now."

"Mr. Novotny is the manager on duty, sir."

Patrick stared at him a moment. "Do you have anyone here at all with that name? Jonas Raudonas?"

"No, sir, I'm not familiar with –"

The bottom of Patrick's stomach fell out of his gut. He thought he was going to puke.

Instead he dug out his CBI identification and held it out. "Call the police! There's a CBI Agent in serious danger! Suite 1112. Hurry! Call for EMS also! There's a murderer in Suite 1112!"

He ran back to the elevators only to find both of them all the way up at the fifteenth floor and neither was moving.

"C'mon, damn it!" he yelled, stabbing at the call button. It wouldn't do any good. Red John had those cars stuck there somehow. Patrick dashed to the fire stairwell and started running up the stairs.

_Oh, God, Teresa, I'm so sorry. Fight him off. Oh please fight him off._

He hoped she'd put one of her Glocks into her suitcase so she could use it on him.

Those damned people on the elevator! Of course! In an office building, people moved from one floor to the next, but in a hotel, most guests traveled between the lobby and the floor where their room was. Generally they didn't move internally, except for perhaps to the Office Center. And the snowboarder, hitting him with the board, plus the overpowering cologne; both ruses, distractions.

By the fifth floor, Patrick's lungs were bursting, but he kept going as fast as he could. His head was spinning from both his exertion and from the lack of oxygen; the resort was at 8500 feet and the air was thin. By the eighth floor, he had to stop, pressing his back against the cold cinderblock wall for a moment.

"Teresa," he panted, forcing himself to push away and continue. Bloody, wretched smiley faces flashed before his eyes. His lovely supercop covered with gore. Body posed like that of the beautiful and gentle Annie and the innocent, sweet Charlie. Or any of the last dozen corpses he's had to exam left by that piece of shit demon who tortured his victims, making them live through their evisceration, probably grinning into their faces while slashing their throats.

At the eleventh floor, he collapsed against the stairwell door, falling to his knees, gasping for air, trying to suppress the terror-generated, white flashes before his eyes. He couldn't run anymore. All he could do was retch and see the bile spill on the floor.

It took twenty seconds for that, he figured, agonizing over the delay but there was no stopping it. Twenty seconds closer to death for Teresa, if Red John hadn't yet killed her. He may not have. He may be waiting for Patrick to return so he could kill Teresa in front of him. That sick bastard would enjoy that. Oh yes, he would.

It wasn't much help to think that way, but it was hope for one of Teresa's much loved miracles. Hope for the intervention by a saint.

Patrick hauled himself up as he pulled on the door out of the stairwell. Staggering rather than running, he rushed towards the suite. The key slid in, the lock glowed green, the handle turned.

The door stopped against the brass, bar-type security latch.

"Teresa!" he yelled through the small gap in the door. "TERESA!"

There was a scream and then an electric crackle. Red John's favorite implement for subduing his female victims; a wired-probed taser. Teresa screamed again in hell-born agony.

Patrick threw himself against the door, but the latch held.

A weak voice floated to him, "Patrick…?" Teresa's pleading tones were cut off by a slap.

"TERESA!" Once again he threw his shoulder to the door. There was the faint sound of wood splintering. "Damn it!" he screamed, stepping back and ramming his whole body against it. It flew open and he fell to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, running to a man hunched over a bound and stretched prone Teresa. The man's arm rose, a bloody linoleum knife clutched in his fist. He stabbed down, piercing her gut, making her scream once more. The arm rose again.

"You motherfucker!"

Patrick ran, bowling the man over, grabbing at the knife, seizing it, wrestling it away. Once he had it, he slashed wildly at…

…_Oh my God, it's Gale Bertram!_

* * *

_**To be continued...**_


	20. Chapter 20

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

Red John recovered quickly, rising to his feet, taking advantage of Patrick's stunned inaction. To Patrick's amazement, the tall man he knew as Bertram brought a gun out from the waistband at the small of his back. Patrick swallowed hard. He needed to realign his thinking, to change his attitude about the man in front of him

He should have known, damn it! The signs were there to read, but he kept interpreting them as symptoms of self-absorbed, pompous bureaucrat. But what was Red John? Just a self-absorbed, pompous bureaucratic sociopath with a need to subjugate women, rape them and murder them.

"You realize that our game has to end now, long and enjoyable though it has been." The voice conveyed its usual smarmy confidence but there was an additional edge of menace.

And of course Red John knew of Patrick's fear of guns. Much more effective for liquefying any resistance the mentalist might garner.

He gestured impatiently, indicating for Patrick to stand up. Patrick's muscles burned as he struggled but he collapsed to the ground again.

_Delay, delay, delay. _

Bones crunched as Red John kicked the knife from Patrick's outstretched hand. The bloody blade clattered across the room as Patrick yelled in pain.

"Get up, damn you." Red John grabbed Patrick by his shirt collar and tried to haul him to his feet.

_Delay. … Must… delay. Police are on their way to the suite. Or hotel security…somebody…_

When he didn't rise, Red John kicked him viciously in the kidneys and started dragging him.

_Deadweight. Be uncooperative._

"You're a useless, ineffectual idler, Patrick, incapable of accomplishing anything. After I dispatched Angela and Charlotte, I never thought your sorry, arrogant carcass would do anything beyond stand in front of the cameras and whine about how wrong you were. Imagine my delight when you actually joined CBI with hope that you might catch me. I really didn't think you had it in you to even do that much. A real job for the bungler."

Nearby Lisbon groaned. Patrick looked at her closely for the first time, horrified. Her robe was open and the negligee was slashed to ribbons. Blood oozed from her wounds, pulsing with each heartbeat. They all looked shallow except the mighty rent in her belly to the right of her hip bone. Tears blurred his vision as he reached out with his unbroken hand. He snatched it away again when Red John kicked at it.

"And then you started to moon after our fair Lisbon here. Oh, that was a delight as well! I enjoyed watching it very much, especially when I realized I understood it before you did. I actually encouraged it, doing my best to foster deeper feelings for our little lost lamb who had the great big responsibility of catching the tyger."

"You evil bastard…"

He glared at the tall, balding man, hoping to express the depth of his hatred, then not giving a damn if it showed. They both understood it. Red John even laughed at it.

"Evil is relative, my dearest Patrick. How could I be evil when my heart is so filled with love and admiration for you?"

"You arranged for the case to be assigned to her, didn't you? The most junior team leader of the most inexperienced, the most insubordinate, the most dysfunctional team?"

"Of course! When my friend in the DA's office wanted a recommendation on which CBI team was best suited, SCU was my first thought. Why give it to someone who had any kind of chance? Then I got the position of Director of Law Enforcement, and it was a simple matter to keep things that way, despite your repeated failures. Although I admit, as de facto head of the Special Crimes Unit, you've whipped them into shape pretty well. They'd become a force to reckon with."

Patrick gritted his teeth, fighting the snarl that came to his lips. Of course Red John would denigrate Teresa's first-rate competency in running the unit. Patrick closed cases; that was all. He didn't manage teams.

"Bosco was so right, you know. It did eventually become your unit. Your arrogance couldn't allow you to be subordinate to a woman for very long."

_Bosco._ The thought of the senseless slaughter of Bosco and his team sent a cannon shot through his chest. _Oh, Bosco, I owe vengeance for you as well._

Once again Red John jerked the gun. "You've rested enough. Get up."

Patrick struggled to his feet, staring at his love as she lay on the floor. Her hands were bound over her head with cable ties and attached to the leg of the sofa. Her feet were also cable-tied together to a chair. She wasn't fully conscious, and her breath was getting more labored. How much had she lost because he'd wandered into CBI all those years ago? Now it might be her life.

"Teresa, I love you," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. You don't deserve this."

"Touching," Red John scoffed. "Tomorrow the press will know that it was your undying love for her that drove you to a fit of jealousy. It was so intense; it made you kill her and then yourself over her loss to another man."

"We're married, you know."

Red John's amusement danced as a black fire in his cold eyes. "Yes, I know. Frankly, I'm surprised you found the courage to act on your feelings instead of continuing to allow me to use them against you. Why else do you both have to die now? Separate, you wasted so much energy on the distraction of saving her from peril, you didn't seriously threaten me.

"Now…well, you would work together most diligently. Especially since you're probably thinking of setting up house, making babies, all that treacle. I need to remove the new growth off the top of the plant. Prune you both out, so to speak."

He chuckled in quiet amusement and began to pace a little.

_Perfect. Go on with your monologue-ing, you arrogant bastard. Delay, delay, delay._

"However, Cho will be an excellent sprouting point. He's good enough to pursue me but he doesn't have the drive that personal vengeance provides. He won't be competent enough to direct an entire league against me, which is what it would take. But hey, I'm game for it. I'll need a new challenge with you and Lisbon gone."

Patrick grimaced as he cradled his busted hand against his stomach. He turned his glare up at Red John's smug smile.

"There's a license. Proof that we married. Your little cover story is completely idiotic. Cho will see right through it. I expected much better from you, Bertram."

"There was a horrible fire overnight, Patrick. In Reno. Didn't you hear on the news? Oh! Of course not! You were probably too busy fucking your brains out with the lovely Lisbon. Yes, one of those tourist chapels, a place called Happy Matrimony burned to the ground. Two unfortunate fatalities, a minister named Mr. Homer Tybor and his lovely wife Hazel – who also played the organ and served as an official witness – were consumed in the flames, along with all the pending records from ceremonies over the weekend. Quite a shame, really."

It was a sharper blow than a stomach punch would have been, made worse by the cavalier tone with which the information was conveyed. More innocent victims of this madman who toyed with the last ten years of Patrick's life, destroying every happy memory he'd ever formed! The guilt was staggering.

_I have to stop this! Red John has to be stopped now!_

Red John grabbed Patrick's arm and shoved him towards the balcony door.

"It's time for you to go, my beloved friend. Say goodbye to Teresa. I'm going to miss both of you."

Patrick staggered forward and leaned heavily on one of the French doors.

"So I'm supposed to jump?"

"No, although you're going to fall, it's true. I'm going to have the pleasure of assisting you."

_Like hell…_

Patrick grabbed the gun just as Red John pulled the trigger. Searing pain tore through his side and he doubled over his agony. Glass shattered behind him. Warm blood gushed onto his hands that clasped the wound. The door opened, the cold air flooding through, and Red John pushed him through it.

"So much for… your leaping…lover scenario," Patrick said through his grasps for air.

"I don't think one bullet hole is going to withstand the proverbial pizza you're going to be after falling eleven stories into a stand of trees, Patrick. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time I… _rearranged_ crime scene evidence."

_Delay, delay, delay…_

"Yes, you've been very…good about covering…your tracks, Bertram….I've…always had a bad…feeling about you… Since the first time…I met you, but I just wrote it off as my…predisposition… to hate heartless assholes."

"Ah! Are you claiming to be psychic now, Patrick? How very amusing! A bundle of contradictions to the very last!"

Red John spun him around and pushed him through the open door toward the railing. Patrick fought against him, tempted to try the deadweight ploy again, but that wouldn't kill this incarnate of evil.

"Stop! Police! Put your hands up!"

Red John glanced around at the shout from the door and Patrick took advantage of the distraction. He seized Red John by the lapel and coat sleeve and swung him hard toward the abyss. Red John went over but managed to grab the railing and Patrick's coat. For a moment the tall man dangled by an incredible grip, fingers impossibly tight on his coat lapel.

Patrick wailed as his chest was dragged over the banister but stopped before going over. His feet left the ground a little, and the snow-covered trees seemed to reach up from the courtyard, gravity pulling inexorably. The gun slipped from between Red John's hand and the railing, eventually disappearing as a black dot into the branches. Then somehow Red John got his feet up on the lip of the balcony and struggled to climb back up.

A hand grabbed the waistband of Patrick's pants and a shin pushed against his calf, bracing him. The fear on Red John's face turned to pure hatred when he looked at whoever was helping Patrick. Red John's hand let go of the railing and grabbed another part of Patrick's jacket, yanking him perilously. Panic was the only thing that countered the excruciating pain in his stomach and hand. He wanted to hit Red John's hands but he didn't dare release his bracing against the railing.

"I don't care if I die…as long as you… die too, Red John." Patrick's voice shook with his terror, but he could hear his own determination and rage.

"Then let's die together, old friend."

The pull on Patrick's pants increased, like extra weight had been added. A gunshot exploded near Patrick's ear and surprise registered on Red John's face as a red circle blossomed on his neck. He let go and vanished from view. Patrick flew backward, hitting a soft body. The sound of shattering glass filled his ears followed by a rain of shrapnel. Things went dark.

* * *

_**To be continued...**_


	21. Chapter 21

**_My sincere thanks to everyone who has read, followed and marked this story as a favorite. My greatest thanks to everyone who has left a review._**

* * *

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

Patrick fought against the agony that threatened to drive him back into unconsciousness. His entire right side was on fire and when he moved to touch it, his right hand exploded with pain.

"…And send another unit? We have a white male, about 45…gunshot wound to the abdomen, broken hand, minor cuts from safety glass."

"Teresa…take care of Teresa…" Patrick mumbled.

"She's gone already," someone said

Patrick's eyes shot open and he stared at the two cops kneeling around him. "No! No!" He tried to sit up but movement was excruciating. He gasped and winced.

A middle-aged cop smacked a young cop's arm with the back of his hand before addressing Patrick. "He _means_ that they're taking care of her already. She's on her way to the hospital. Hear that helicopter? It's going to airlift her to Reno."

Faintly the distinctive sound of a chopper came to him from the balcony. He looked over. The safety glass in the door had a large hole in it, like a body had broken through it.

_Two bodies. Mine and whoever hauled my ass back from certain death._

Then he realized… "Red John! Where is he?"

"Who?"

"The man who was trying to kill me! The man who stabbed my wife! Where is he?"

The two cops looked at each other and then off to the side. Patrick tried to raise his head but using any muscle hurt badly. Another cop – a sergeant – stepped up.

"The fire department is trying to get the body out of a tree. You say he's Red John? The _serial killer _Red John?" The man's face turned livid before he struggled to suppress his emotions. "Red John killed my daughter seventeen years ago. Are you sure…?"

Patrick nodded, closing his eyes and collapsing again. "Watch that body. He has followers…might steal it…"

Someone touched his side and he jumped again. When he looked, one of the cops was removing a blood-soaked towel, replacing it with a fresh one.

The sergeant barked orders into his radio, calling for a guard over the crime scene in the hotel courtyard. Then he lowered onto one knee beside Patrick.

"You're Patrick Jane, aren't you? You tried to kill him before. I remember seeing on the news…Are you sure this time that…?"

That was an interesting question. When Patrick shot Timothy Carter, he had been positive at the time that it was Red John. Was he so sure this time?

Yes. There was something truly evil in the eye of the man who had stood in front of him.

And this man had tried to kill Teresa.

"Sergeant, I'm 100% positive it's Red John, and even if it's not, I would be justified in defending myself and my wife–"

"No, I mean…I was the one who shot him. I've got to be sure –"

Patrick studied the man's face. The mix of guilt and relief was as plain as a billboard. He glanced at the name tag.

_Yes, Hohmann, Brenda Marie. 19 years old, Victim Seven, college student, found in abandoned building near the University of Nevada at Reno._

"It _was_ him, Sergeant Hohmann. Your daughter has been avenged. My family has been avenged. Red John is dead."

"Thank God," the man mumbled. "Listen, my dispatch has contacted CBI. Is there someone in particular…?"

"Kimball Cho," Patrick said, pointing vaguely with his left hand. "My wife's phone…"

* * *

"Okay, I understand, Sergeant Hohmann. I'll be there in a couple of hours."

Cho hung up his phone and stared a moment. Not the kind of call he expected to get on a Sunday morning. Jane and his wife were on their way to a hospital in Reno? His _wife_? Cho had been certain that Jane was with Lisbon. Had he called it wrong?

No, he knew Jane and Lisbon were a couple, even if it was nothing more than two lonely people screwing around, trying to keep loneliness at bay. Besides, Jane would have made a big deal about that not-so-veiled threat if Cho had been wrong.

They must have gotten married. That's why Red John chose to attack. Although, maybe it really _wasn't_ Red John. Still, Sergeant Hohmann seemed positive that it was. Gale Bertram? Really?

He sighed and looked at his family in the other room, enjoying their Sunday morning gathering with friends. His wife Ae-cha looked up and after studying his face a moment, lost her smile. She bowed slightly to their guests and came to join him.

"Kimball, you're upset," she said in Korean.

And that was why he married her. She could read the unreadable.

"Bad news," he said, also in Korean. "Lisbon and Jane were attacked in Truckee."

"Oh, no! Attacked how? What happened?" She ran her hands down the silk sleeves of his jeogori and captured his hands in both of hers. He squeezed them tightly.

"I don't know what to believe yet. There seems to be some confusion of the facts. They're calling Lisbon 'Jane's wife'. Or Jane has a wife and they were there along with Lisbon? And Gale Bertram is dead? It's a confused mess."

The delicate expression on the lovely Asian woman's face turn determined. "You must go, of course. I'll take care of this."

Cho stared at his wife a moment and stepped forward to kiss her tenderly. He ran his hand over her baby bump before nodding.

"I'm sorry, I don't know how long this will take."

"You will call to let me know. You always do, Kimball. Now go."

While Ae-cha explained to their guests, Cho added a few items to his ready bag. He said good-bye to the party attendees and his wife before climbing into his Mustang for the drive to Reno. After clearing the town of Rocklin, he pulled out his phone and voice commanded a speed dial number.

It took a while to get an answer. It went to voice mail twice in a row before he got an answer on his third call.

A breathless voice answered. "Rigsby."

How damned embarrassing.

"Sorry to interrupt an intimate moment," he said, "but you and Van Pelt need to get dressed and meet me in Reno."

"Cho?...er…what?"

"I know you and Grace are out of town for a romantic weekend, but I just got a call from a Sergeant Hohmann of Truckee P.D. Supposedly Red John is dead – "

"What?"

"Yeah, thrown out a window by Jane after Red John sliced Jane's wife up—"

"WHAT?"

"— and yet somehow Lisbon is getting flown to Reno for emergency surgery after being stabbed. And don't say 'what' again, 'cause I know you heard me, man."

There was a choking sound as Wayne fought back his response.

"I'm driving there now. I'll call you when I have accurate information."

"Uh…it's about a three hour drive for us. I'll see about having Grace fly straight to Reno from here."

In the background, Cho heard Grace's urgent questioning.

"Whatever. Let me know what you two decide. GPS is telling me I'm still an hour and forty-five out, but that's based on normal driving speeds."

"Okay, Kimball, we'll call you. You do the same for us if you hear anything else."

"Will do."

Cho touched the disconnect button and called the Assistant District Attorney's office trying to get some information. As he was on hold and being transferred, he glanced down at his legs and cursed.

He was still dressed in his baji and jeogori. When he placed his hand on his head, he found it bare. At least he'd remembered to remove the gat.

* * *

**To be continued...**


	22. Chapter 22

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

Patrick blinked rapidly, focusing his eyes on a blank white ceiling. Lying on his back with his head slightly raised by the bed he was on, he assessed the angle of the natural light bouncing around the room. The warmth of the light was the only thing that gave any personality. Late afternoon? Yes, not quite evening.

The scent in the air, sharp with disinfectant, honed his thoughts. Hospital…

There was a contraption overhead, with weights and pulleys and stainless steel hardware. His gaze followed a series of ropes down to a sling that lifted his casted right arm in the air.

"Welcome back, Jane."

He swept his gaze round the room, searching for the source of the voice until it fell on something familiar amongst the personality-free hospital décor.

"Cho," he said, smiling. His voice sounded scratchy. His throat hurt.

His friend rose from the chair by the window and crossed to the foot of the bed. His expression was vaguely relieved as well as slightly irritated. It was hard to tell, especially since Patrick's brain felt like he had a pound of cotton stuffed between his ears.

"How are you feeling?"

"To be honest? Weird."

"Yeah? Well, join the club."

"Is there any water around here? I'm so dry."

"Major blood loss from being shot through the liver will do that to you," Cho answered, turning to the nearby overbed table and rolling it closer. "So will emergency surgery." He poured a cup of water from the pitcher, unwrapped and inserted the straw and then held it for Patrick to sip.

"Thank you."

Cho nodded tersely.

"How's Teresa? Last I remember, they told me she was in surgery."

"Surgery went well. Van Pelt and Rigsby are with her even though she's still unconscious." Cho set down the cup and crossed his arms, staring like he was in Interrogation Room 3 across from a murder suspect. "So talk. What happened?"

Patrick smiled and gestured with his left hand toward Cho's left hand.

"You first. When did you get married? I knew you were in a relationship, even though you chose not to share this fact with anyone, but I'm kinda hurt that we weren't invited." He gave his cheekiest grin.

Definite annoyance flashed across Cho's face. He looked away as he shifted his feet.

"You weren't the only one concerned about Red John," he said, slipping the ring off his finger.

"Ah." Guilt swamped Patrick. All these years, he had been concerned about Teresa's safety because of Red John's unpredictable evil. Only as a passing thought had he considered the safety of the rest of the team, another source of guilt in retrospect. As it turned out, Cho was right to be cautious, since Red John was keeping an eye on him. Anyone even connected with Patrick Jane should have been worried. "You don't need to be concerned anymore."

Indecision played on Cho's expression for a moment before he placed the ring back on his finger.

"Yes, I do, but for different reasons."

Patrick studied the immovable face and then smiled. "Pregnant already? When are you due?"

"We're just entering the second trimester. But enough about me and Ae-cha. What happened to you in—"

"'Ae-cha'? That means 'love and child', doesn't it?"

"'Love' and 'daughter', but don't change the subject."

"I didn't change the subject. You did. It seems to have been a pretty short courtship if you're already having a baby together. How long ago did you get married?"

"I could ask the same about you and Lisbon," Cho said.

_Counter punch. Nice job, Cho. _"We were married yesterday."

"Yes, I know. We found the marriage certificate in the bedroom safe in your suite."

"'We'?"

"CBI did. We've secured the crime scene and are guarding the body. There's also a guard outside Lisbon's room and here, courtesy of Nevada Highway Patrol." He gestured toward the exit to the room. "But we don't have proof positive that Bertram was Red John yet. Initial search of his house turned up nothing, and –"

"He tried to kill Teresa and me. He told me he's behind the fire of the chapel where we got married. Arson fire, two murders and two attempted murders in twenty-four hours."

Cho stared at him a moment and then crossed to the door into the hall, speaking to someone briefly. When he returned, he moved the chair to the other side of the bed so it was between Jane and the door. Then he opened his small duffle and pulled out a gun before sitting, mostly facing the door.

"We'll get to the bottom of this soon, Jane, but no more games."

"Protect Lisbon, not me, if you think the disciples are going to try anything."

"I've requested that someone come take a statement from you as soon as possible. Please cooperate."

"I will, but as soon as I can get out of here, I need to examine Bertram's things. I'm sure I can find his secret office or wherever he operated as Red John. Nobody runs an operation that big without paperwork or whatever. Bertram had too much to keep track of. There had to have been secret meetings. You don't just instantly hypnotize people to behave insanely."

"I still don't quite believe it, Jane—"

"It was him, Cho! I have witnesses! Those cops saw him trying to push me off the balcony."

"But…Bertram?"

"It makes sense when you think about it. I'm not sure why I didn't see it sooner."

"Explain it to me, then."

"What did we always say was Bertram's biggest concern regarding the activities of the department? Of all his responsibilities as head of California Law Enforcement?"

"Appearances."

"Exactly. He hated when CBI and CHP appeared in the media under bad light. He didn't give a damn about morale or individual feelings or anyone's dismissal or reinstatement. All he wanted was for everything to appear in a good light. Whenever he got upset with us in particular was when we made him look bad."

"Yeah…okay, but what does that have to do with it being obvious that he was Red John?"

"What happened that made Red John decide to kill my family?"

Cho stared at him. Patrick could practically see the gears turning.

"You slandered him in the media. On national television, you made disparaging remarks that indicated he was small and worthless."

"And the same thing with Panzer the San Joaquin Killer."

"Yeah, but everyone knows you set him up for that, Jane."

"It doesn't matter. Bertram got a double whammy on that one because Panzer was disparaging both him as Red John and him as head of law enforcement by implying that the Killer would never be caught."

Cho nodded. "Yes, you're right, Jane."

"The incrimination evidence is out there, Cho, and I intend to find it."

"Yeah, well, get better first. Go back to sleep until the interview." Cho shifted the gun in his hand and turned back to the door.

Patrick pushed his head in his pillow and closed his eyes.

"How bad is Lisbon?" he asked softly, even though he dreaded the answer. "Tell me the whole of it."

He heard Cho's deep sigh but then silence for a long time.

"Numerous laceration, including one on her throat, all shallow. One stab wound to the abdomen, perforating her descending colon, small intestine and her uterus. They had to remove her left ovary."

Patrick closed his eyes, fighting nausea as the guilt once again overwhelmed him, this time worse than when he realized how affected the team was because of his choices in life. His precious Teresa…

"Red John trademark," he whispered.

"Yeah… copying Jack the Ripper, focusing on reproductive organs. But he didn't succeed. How did you stop him?"

"I…I tackled him."

When he opened his eyes, Cho was staring at him, his mouth hanging open.

"You did what? You _tackled_ him?"

"Well… I ran into him, knocking him over."

"You tackled him."

Patrick sighed and stared at the ceiling again. "Too little, too late. If I had been thinking clearly, I would have seen through his ruse and I wouldn't have left in the first place. Or I could have pretended to leave. Slipped into a service closet. Or into the stairwell. Instead…he distracted me completely. Fooled me into leaving the room like the simplest mark—"

"Stop that," Cho said firmly.

With surprise at the suppressed anger in the words, Patrick looked at his longtime friend, trying to read the usually unreadable face. Only this time, it was all too easy to see the clenched jaw and the deep sadness in the eyes.

"Stop what, Kimball?"

"You're trying to convince yourself that you let her down, that somehow you failed Lisbon by being human. Stop it."

"Listen, when I decided that I didn't give a damn what Red John would try, I did so with the promise to myself that I would stop him. Yet it's barely over a week since I told her how much I – I love her… and Red John almost sliced her in two."

Tears came despite his best efforts to stop them. Cho stood and came to his bedside.

"Forgive yourself, man. Don't blame yourself for being human. It was the morning after your wedding. You were probably on cloud nine after marrying a very special lady, a lady I know you've cared deeply about for a long time."

"A lot of good it did her," Patrick grumbled. "She would be better off if I'd just rotted away in a bottle somewhere like I'd intended after Annie and Charlotte died."

Cho shook his head, leaning with his forearms against the bed's handicap rail.

"The ever-seeing Patrick Jane apparently missed something very important about his arrival at the CBI all those years ago." He smirked and then actually laughed derisively. "I never took you for such a blind fool."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you, Patrick…Listen, I've been Teresa's friend for a long time, even after she became my boss. I had been trying to protect her from herself for years before you showed up on the scene."

Patrick stared at him, certain that his head would crack open and shoot confetti into the air or something equally outrageous. It was all too surreal to absorb.

"When you showed up looking like a hairball that the cat spit up and decided to keep as a souvenir, Lisbon was in a very tough situation. We'd had the Red John case for a couple of months and frankly we were getting nowhere fast. We re-ran all the interviews. Every piece of DNA was tested again. Hundreds of photographs, hours of surveillance video, dozens of badly written reports…all poured over half a dozen times each. On top of that, Steve Hannigan was being surly and uncooperative, even though Lisbon was his last chance and he knew it.

"Lisbon started to believe that she would always be 'the little lady of CBI', the wannabe Special Agent given the position because the government needed a quota of female managers. I knew better because I'd seen her exceptional work as an inspector with SanFran P.D. but the way we were floundering as a unit, it was pretty easy to see that maybe we were all in over our heads. She tried to keep it together, even starting with 'tough guy' tactics with us to show the rest of CBI that she could hack it. But it wasn't her style at all and the whole situation was starting to wear her down. I think she'd even started throwing back a couple at the bar during lunch because she felt she had to fortify herself or something."

"Teresa? Drinking? Nah…"

"Yeah, I think so, Jane. Except the day you walked through the door, a lost lamb searching for a way through. It must have pulled every maternal string in her heart because she kept a close eye on you, checking that you were okay. Sorta like a pound puppy she wanted to toss back on the street but didn't have the heart to."

Patrick quirked an eyebrow. "At least I didn't pee on the carpet."

"That's about all you _haven't_ done in the past ten years, Jane," Cho chuckled. "But there are two things you _did_ do. First, you helped her unit close cases, something we didn't do a very good job at before because we kinda lost our way. Because of you, we learned how to look at our clues and our evidence in ways we never thought of before. And even if eighty percent of our success was due to that damned computer brain of yours, it was still her skill as a manager over all of us crazy misfits that made her shine in front of her supervisors. Your presence was the making of her career, not the detriment, and you know how important her career is to her."

The accolades were started to get uncomfortable, and Patrick wished Kimball would stop. He needed to redirect the subject.

"You said I did two things. What's the other?"

"You gave her hope."

"Hope? C'mon, Kimball, I used to sell hope to people by telling them lies and taking their money. What kind of crap statement is that?"

"Believe what you want, man, but I'm telling you that Lisbon was burning out faster than a road flare, but you were constantly there to put the flame back into her. Despite all the shit you two gave each other over the years, she always looked to you for a recharge, for renewed hope."

That was a damned scary thought and he almost swore at Cho for putting it in his head. Him? Inspiration for Teresa Lisbon? No way in hell…

"Patrick, if you run now, it will kill her."

_Who's the mentalist now, Kimball? _Yes, it had crossed his mind.

"I wasn't going to run," Patrick scoffed. "I have a hole in my liver. How far would I even get?"

"Withdraw, then. Pull out of her life like you did before, just because you think you're not worthy of her."

"Of course I'm _not_ worthy of her, Kimball! I almost got her killed… and not for the first time, either."

"She's a cop. How often have we all been shot at in the years you've known us?"

"It's different—"

"It's not different. Besides… if you run, you'll be running from Lisbon as well as the rest of us. Lisbon may not chase you… but I would. Primarily to hurt you. Very badly."

The pure venom in Cho's glare was almost touchable.

"Like I said, how far would I even get?"

As Cho continued to stare at him, his expression began to soften.

"Look…Patrick…if you're in love, stay in love. That's the best way to show her what she means to you. Martyring yourself to love isn't love at all. Your experience with Angela should have taught you that."

"What the hell does that even mean?"

"You denied that you loved Lisbon because you felt you had to for the sake of your dead wife. But what good did it do her or you? It was misery. Nobody gained from your pain."

Cho had a point. Patrick didn't feel like anything had been accomplished by mourning Annie for ten years. Nothing but drama.

"The only way things got done was after you both decided to live again. So don't make the same mistake twice."

Then he pointed at Jane's left hand.

"And get a better wedding ring. Where did you find that? A gumball machine?"

Patrick looked at the thin band where it was starting to make his finger turn green and chuckled. Then he laughed for a long time until his surgical wound started to ache.

He'd stay with Teresa Lisbon. He couldn't have it any other way.

* * *

**To be continued…**


	23. Chapter 23

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

Sleep. He really missed it.

The previous few nights with Teresa at his side, he had managed to enjoy it thoroughly. Her warmth and caring would make any bed as secure as a cradle, and the quality of his sleep was a treasure. Even though _he_ was holding _her_ protectively, it felt like it was she who was making everything all right.

Granted, sleep was a luxury that returned to him a few years before, soon after he'd come to understand that he was part of a family again, a strangely interrelated family that consisted of a five-foot-four mother hen, a no-nonsense, protective older brother who was younger than him, a sometimes lanky, goofball brother with a heart of gold, and a naïve little sister who had enough love to fill a thousand Disney movies. It was an uneasy sleep but still solid enough that he woke feeling rested.

Just as he was beginning to trust it as normal, he lost that ability after a little girl in a cemetery asked him if he gave up. He was back to sporadic sleep punctuated with nightmares of bloody smiley faces and innocent bodies splashed with red. And when he ran away from his CBI family as part of his plan to catch the man responsible, the only sleep he'd found was located in the wavy glass at the bottom of a vodka bottle. A couple of vodka bottles.

One thought filled his head: _Bertram was Red John. I spoke with him at least once a month, sometimes more, for so many years, and he had me fooled completely._ And one vision flooded his memory; his lady-love Taser'd and bound, bloodied and pale at his feet.

Truly Red John had been superior to him all along. Anytime Patrick had gotten close, circumstances would lead him away, and he never knew how much his life had been so orchestrated by a hand other than his own.

But what had changed the playing field? It was when Patrick could no longer deny the depth of his feelings for Teresa. It was the one right-angle turn that Bertram couldn't adjust to with his usual slick aplomb. In the end, love was what brought Red John down.

Patrick looked at his casted arm still hanging in the air in the sling to reduce swelling and lifted it out, resting his arm on the mattress with a sigh. He ignored the increased pressure that he knew would have translated into pain if it hadn't been for the hospital's wide range of interesting narcotics. His general inclination was to avoid painkillers since they impaired the senses, but he doubted even his expertise with biofeedback controls could overcome the pain from his wounds had he been forced to endure it full strength.

Still, it couldn't have been that bad. Hospitals like having sick people in their halls, the sicker the better. The briefing from the nurse included a lot of words like "lucky", "serious" and "blessed" as well as the ominous phrase "very near miss". Possible damage to his right kidney was still being assessed. The path of Red John's bullet had missed ribs and cut straight through his liver on its way through his body. While the surgeon felt there should be no long term effects, Patrick would be kept a minimum overnight for observation with prescribed bed rest for several days.

_Like hell. I need to see Teresa._

One fortunate thing was that he was proven mobile, having made one successful trip to the bathroom. Okay, so it was with Cho's help getting to and from the room, but he was strong enough to manage it. He reasoned that Teresa's room was nearby since Nevada Highway Patrol wouldn't want to post more than one guard; it would be a waste of manpower. The damned wheeled I.V. pole would be a good cane if he should need it.

With a few grunts and a couple pauses to overcome the burning pain shooting through his side, he climbed down from the bed and cursed the cold floor against his bare feet. Emergency hospital stays were a bitch: no robe, no slippers, no pajamas. He adjusted gown around his ass and hoped the overlap was tied properly. Slowly and carefully, he crossed to the door into the hall. He tried to pull it open but it was definitely heavier than it looked. Either that or he was weaker than he thought. Couldn't be that, however. He felt fine.

With a second pull, he managed to get the door open and started to push the I.V. stand through before stepping out into the bright hall.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Patrick looked up, startled. Cho was seated in a chair next to a Nevada state trooper, a different one than Patrick had been introduced to earlier.

"I was just going to see if Lisbon wanted to sign my cast," Patrick said, holding out his arm.

"And how did you expect to find her?" Cho rose to his feet, so the trooper joined him.

"Well… I figure there can't be that many hospital rooms with guards posted outside them… except mine, of course, since… here you both are."

"Sign your cast, huh? You're definitely on dope, man. Your lies are usually better than that." Cho pointed back toward the room. "To bed, Jane. Lisbon is still sedated. You can see her in the morning."

"Cho… it's my wife –"

"Who is currently asleep. Let her stay that way. She needs the rest. And so do you. Go on, back to bed."

Patrick rolled his eyes and reentered the room as Cho held open the door. "You're a cruel bastard, you know that."

"Yeah, 'cause you don't have sense enough to take care of yourself, Jane. Go on."

The trooper turned on the overhead light as Cho helped Patrick back to bed. As Cho left again, Patrick heard him say to the trooper, "That would be number one."

"You taking bets on my escape attempts?"

"Go to sleep, Patrick. Teresa will be fine. Grace is staying with her tonight."

Cho shut off the light and the door closed behind him.

Patrick smiled. The least he could do was help Cho win his wager. _Three is a nice round number. I'm guessing Cho told the trooper 'three'…_

* * *

_**To be continued…**_


	24. Chapter 24

_**THANK YOU Cumberland River Relic! This was a very challenging chapter for me and your help was priceless!**_

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

Grace Van Pelt hated hospitals almost as much as Jane did and this one was especially hard to come back to. Seeing her boss – no, not just her boss. Her _friend_ Teresa looking so pale and awful to begin with was gut wrenching, making it hard to even nap lightly as she stayed overnight.

It took every ounce of resolve to remain professional when Wayne picked her up to take her to breakfast. She wanted to take his hand and hang on his strong arm because the horror of it all had permeated her psyche all night. Even Wayne seemed affected; he didn't wolf through his food nor did he ask to finish her leftover breakfast like usual.

During the drive back from the nearby restaurant she had prayed that the bright light of the new day would make the scene easier to bear. Belief in a benevolent God convinced her it would be true, that the span of an hour would make all the difference in the world. As they entered the hospital lot, she felt guilty about the request. Hadn't God already blessed her by allowing Teresa to live?

A text from Cho arrived as they were parking. Jane had tried three times during the night to sneak out of his room, so Cho promised to bring Jane to see Lisbon that morning. Grace was glad. Between Cho's stoic strength and Jane's habit of hiding his feelings behind sardonic quips and disarming comments, maybe she had a chance of not breaking down again. Technically, they were all working the Red John case today. Despite the personal impact, she had to keep her head. They all did so they could do their jobs.

During the short elevator ride she allowed Rigsby to wrap his arm around her shoulders, grateful for his understanding and support. They exited on the fifth floor and started down the hall. The guard remained assigned outside Jane's room but the chair where they'd left Cho the night before was empty. They continued down the hall to the intersecting corridor and made a left, stopping outside a room with another guard. As a matter of course they flashed their IDs and entered.

Grace's hopes were dashed. The numerous pints of blood Grace knew were transfused hadn't gone far enough in returning color Teresa's deathly pale skin, and nothing would distract from the bright red slash mark under the clear plastic Tegaderm bandage on her neck.

Red John hadn't been serious with that cut. It was neither the right location nor deep enough, but the fact he could have easily ended her life at that point was terrifying. And it was deep enough to leave a long scar that Teresa would have to look at in the mirror every day. Grace could imagine the horror of living with that reminder for the rest of her life.

When she caught her breath at the thought, Wayne placed a comforting hand on her back. He meant well with his reassurance but it pushed her beyond the extent of her self-control and she cried on his chest for several minutes, despite her intentions to remain strong. The 'what-ifs' poured through her brain, speeding up as more arrived. What if Teresa had died? What if Red John had raped her like some of his early victims? What if she suffered brain damage because of her blood loss? What if this was traumatic enough that she resigned from CBI? What if Jane had died along with Red John? Or instead of Red John? _What if, what if, what if?_

She pulled out of Wayne's arms immediately at the sound of voices in the hall. As Grace struggled to contain herself, Wayne crossed to the door to hold it as Cho pushed Jane's wheelchair into the room. Jane stared at Grace a moment, no doubt absorbing every iota of shame, pain, worry and mourning that she felt about the situation. He'd explained some of his assessment methodology to her several times but still she would almost swear he was psychic.

She especially believed it in this instance when, much to her horror, his face drained of color and he looked towards Lisbon's bed. He tried to rise from the wheelchair but Cho pushed him back into it before rolling the chair to the bedside.

"Teresa!"

Jane threw himself onto her hand, sobbing the words "I'm sorry" repeatedly. When Cho tried to get him to sit back down, he swung his cast to drive his friend away. He missed, but Cho stepped back, looking very angry.

"Jane, it's okay," Grace said, hurrying forward and gently stroking the back of his head. The man lifted his face momentarily before dropping it back onto Boss's hand, just long enough that she read his agony. Even the brief exposure to the pain in his expression was adequate to drop her to her knees beside him. "She's okay, Jane," she said, trying to drive the tremor from her voice as she firmly rubbed his heaving back. "You know that she'll be alright, Patrick."

It was the use of his name that seemed to penetrate his distress. His body relaxed a little, allowing him to sink onto his calves although he didn't release Teresa's hand. His lips still moved to form the words "I'm sorry" repeatedly as he rested his forehead against the side of the bed.

"I can't wait until she wakes up," Grace said, leaning over to hug him, "so she can tell you herself how foolish you are for thinking you're to blame for all this. She knows what a good man you truly are and that you would never risk her life in a game. This is Red John's fault. Never doubt that."

His tears slowed as he listened. Finally he lifted his head and nodded, although not looking up. When Grace rose to her feet and pulled him up, he allowed her and Cho to assist him back into his chair. She offered him the box of tissues after taking a few for herself.

"So..." Jane said at last, wadding his used tissue and shooting left-handed for the trashcan. The used tissue dropped in the center. "Tell me what's going on with the case." He tried to roll his wheelchair back a little but stopped the moment his cast touched the wheel. Grace noticed how his realization turned from surprise to irritation. Not terribly unexpected. Jane did not accept help willingly.

She took pity on him and turned the chair around to face Cho and Rigsby.

"Thank you, Grace," he said, smiling only minimally. His gaze rose to hers, his gratitude in his red, glassy eyes.

She nodded and moved to Wayne's side so Jane didn't have to twist to look at her.

"I'm going over to Reno P.D. to find out more about the fire," Rigsby said. "They've agreed to work with us in determining the cause."

"I'm going to have the hotel burn their surveillance video to disc," Grace said. "Ron volunteered to run it through face recognition software back at CBI. Maybe Bertram talked to someone on camera and we can track the person back."

Jane waggled his head but nodded. "Also find out how Bertram got the hotel's front desk staff reduced to one clerk. Are they working—"

"They were at a local doc-in-a-box, sick with the flu," Rigsby said. "They just figured they'd gotten sick from the same source in the hotel."

"Well, that was the truth," Jane murmured, staring off. He raised his hand to tap his finger to his lip but yeowched softly when his cast hit him in the chin. Again his expression soured. She felt sorry for him because she could see his train of thought derailing with the change to his unconscious gesture. Frustration grew at being required to adapt for something as simple as pondering a problem.

_Good Lord, how is he going to adjust to the absence of Red John? How will any of us?_

Grace pictured a vast barren landscape opening up beyond them all. What kind of changes were going to occur because Red John was dead and he had been Bertram? As much as she had often wished they'd catch Red John and stop his killing spree, she never anticipated this reaction from any of them. They all should have been ecstatic, right? _Ding, dong, the witch is dead!_

But instead she was uneasy. Was her job satisfaction going to implode without a serial killer to chase? After someone as evil as Red John, the return of Jack the Ripper would seem tame. The intense drive that woke her every morning – would it simply vanish? Or slowly fade away? And would she feel like her life had lost some meaning?

Personally she was terrified by the shift. What must Jane be feeling, with all he had vested in catching Red John?

"You said there were other people in the elevator." Cho stared at Jane as he spoke, his harsh tones cutting through Grace's thoughts.

"Yes, although I suspect they're long gone. If I had any skill as a sketch artist, I could draw the faces of everyone there, but what would be the point? They probably have no criminal backgrounds and even if they did, there's no crime in getting on and off an elevator in a major resort."

"Maybe they could give us names of other Red John followers," Wayne said.

Grace cringed at Wayne and his suggestion made without thought. She opened her mouth to speak but Jane snapped out a response first.

"They don't know any of the others! They operate in cells, like terrorists."

Wayne gaped like a fish as he looked at Grace, then Cho.

"Jane…" Grace took a step forward.

Heaving a big sigh, Jane shook his head. "I apologize, Rigs. The pain… the…" He shook his head again. "No, that's not even a good excuse. I'm sorry, Wayne. I have no right to bark at you."

Once again Wayne glanced at the rest of the team before nodding. "I'm nothing if not blindly optimistic. But you're right; they don't know each other."

The sadness on Jane's face was deeper than anything Grace could recall ever seeing before.

"We're all worried about Boss," she said, trying to sound reassuring. "Seriously though, the doctors say she'll be all right."

He nodded, dropping his head forward.

"Yes, when she wakes up, she'll be okay… at first." Then he shrugged. "It's even possible that she won't remember what happened." He looked at each of them sternly. "And you shouldn't say anything to her that will remind her until she starts to remember on her own."

Cho started to speak, but Jane cut him off.

"I _know_ what you're going to say. I've pushed patients in fugue states myself, but they had information that would help solve a case. As far as Lisbon being a witness, there's nothing that she needs to remember that will help us. So just let her be."

"I was going to say that we'll follow the doctors' recommendation," Cho said, a little irritation in his voice.

"Fine. Let's do that. Have they said when they'll revive her?"

"This afternoon, last I heard," Grace said.

"Good. That gives the staff time to set up a bed for me in this room."

Grace fought against allowing her jaw to drop open, but since Cho and Wayne had allowed theirs to, she joined them. They all stared at him as he used his good hand to turn the wheelchair around to look at the room.

"Yes, there's room enough to add a bed," he murmured as if to himself. "Or at least a gurney."

"Jane…" Cho began.

The blond man turned to look at him and then the rest of them. His expression was rigid and angular. "If you think I've been a pain in the ass to you in the past, imagine what an unholy terror I can be when I'm truly determined."

A chill went down Grace's back. His voice was threatening, more menacing than a cornered armed fugitive being apprehended in a dark alley.

She had read Jane's incident statement to the CBI and double checked it against the statement from Hohmann and his officers, and she had trouble envisioning the violence that had transpired. In the entire nine years she'd been on the team, Jane was always so passive. Unless he could catch someone with words or with someone else's muscle and gun, he generally didn't care to bother with force.

After hearing him just then, she came to believe the reports.

"I want a bed in here now," Jane said. "She will not wake without me at her side."

Grace and Wayne looked at Cho who stared at Jane's hard face without flinching.

"We'll see what we can do," Cho said.

"Kimball, she will not wake without me at her side. I _will_ be here." Jane's voice was softer but no less determined. He never blinked.

Cho did, however. He gave a nod and turned to the door. "I'll see to it."

Wayne followed, mumbling something about the Reno arson unit. He looked at Grace, checking if she was okay. When she nodded, he did too and exited the room.

"Grace, could you please help me back to…?" Jane gestured toward Lisbon's side again. His usual phlegmatic expression was back. His tone was normal.

Still she found herself resistant to drawing close.

"I won't bite," he said. "And even if I did, I have all my shots."

She rolled her eyes and went around to the grips on the wheelchair.

"It's hard not to be a little hesitant, Jane."

"Call me 'Patrick', Grace. It will help you forget that I pushed a man off an eleventh floor balcony."

"That wasn't a man. That was Red John."

As she maneuvered the chair, Patrick shook his head. "He was still only a man. Never forget that. He was a human capable of horrific things, just like we all are."

She shook her head also. "Somehow, that's not reassuring, Patrick."

He reached out to his wife's hand and caressed it. His reply was funereal. "Never meant it to be, my young friend. Only honest."

Again a chill raced down her spine. This new Patrick Jane would take some getting used to.

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

**If you're inclined to leave a review - even if it's just to say 'hey' - I'd appreciate it. :-)**


	25. Chapter 25

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

It was a cloud blacker than a garbage fire and with a stench worse than Los Angeles smog. Lightning flashed through it, striking her left breast. Electricity shot through her body, tightened it into a frozen ball. She tried to swing her fist but her arms remained locked at her sides, not even capable of softening her fall as she toppled like a tree.

Her fingers tingled as the electricity faded and her arms were lifted over her head. She was sliding along the ground, the friction pulling her robe down at her shoulders. Her wrists slapped together and something tightened around them. Her entire body was cold, like her blood had been turned to ice. Something tore. Fabric? Skin? Her soul?

_Boogey man… beast… monster…the Devil…_

She choked on her own fluids as bile rose in her throat and fell back down the wrong pipe.

_Momma's little girl._ A mature woman's voice whispered the familiar endearment. Her mother called to her. _Reesie, don't let the boys fight. Someone will get hurt._

Guilt seized her. She'd tried to keep the boys from fighting. Her little brothers. Her fiancé Greg and her gay friend Steven. Patrick and… and…

_God, please save him! _she prayed. _I love him. Don't let him get hurt! I would rather die than…_

A deep, evil laugh filled the air, and confusion spiked through her memories. She knew Patrick was going to die, not her. She'd have to live the rest of her life, knowing he gave his for hers.

_No, Patrick! No!_

Then her arms were back at her side and soft pink light filled her vision. Her core felt warm again. Loving arms surrounded her and she felt safe once more.

* * *

..**..**..

* * *

Grace entered the room, carefully watching the tray of food she'd carried from the hospital cafeteria. The soup looked watery and the dinner roll was stale but at least they had the blueberry muffin that Patrick had asked for as he had settled into his newly installed bed. The only tea available was an off-brand, but she brought it for him anyway.

"Patrick, they had…" she started to say.

"Shhhh, my love. It's okay."

Grace wasn't sure who he was talking to but she was certain it wasn't her. That left Cho. She looked up as she entered the room proper. Cho wasn't in the room and Patrick was in the boss's bed. He was lying at an angle under her upper body, with her back on his chest and her head on his shoulder. Somehow he had intertwined himself under her, wrapping his arms around her waist, holding her lightly. Despite the equipment she was hooked up to, he managed to slip under it all. avoiding every tube and wire leading off her left side. Teresa's face was tight, her brow drawn, although it was relaxing even as he spoke.

"I'm here, my dear," he said in soft, emotionless tones that Grace only heard when he was hypnotizing someone. "No one will hurt you. We're both safe now."

He repeated it, his voice softer with each sentence, and as he did, Teresa relaxed more until she was again at peace. As he carefully slipped from behind her, easing her onto the mattress once more, Grace winced and urged him to watch out every time there seemed to be a tug on the leads and wires and tubes. She set down the tray and placed herself nearby in case he needed help. After he was clear of her, he turned to lean against his bed, wincing and holding his side lightly.

"What happened?" Grace asked, helping him onto his bed.

"She's coming out of sedation," he said between clenched teeth. "I saw her going into R.E.M. sleep. I knew…" He heaved a sigh as he settled back into his pillow. His voice cracked. "God, I knew…"

Unsure about what else to do, Grace helped him climb under his bedding and then tucked him in.

"Was she having a nightmare?" she asked.

"The first of many to come."

"Really? Why do you say that?"

Patrick stared at her. She wondered why the question was so significant. Then she realized.

All this time, she assumed he was just an insomniac because his memories kept him from going to sleep in the first place. Occasionally she'd even wondered if his suffering was partially self-imposed because he assumed guilt that wasn't truly his. It never occurred to her what he had gone through on so many levels of his life.

"S-sorry," she stammered.

He gestured with his hand as he closed his eyes. "There's no reason that you should know. Teresa was my only confidant about it."

"I-I know you've been close for a long time," she said. "I just didn't know…"

"There's no reason that you should know," he said, repeating himself, "because there was nothing _to_ know." He opened his eyes to once again stare at her. "Until a week ago Saturday, we'd been only friends."

Briefly he looked away. "Well…more than friends… but not lovers. We were both unsure what we needed, although we were pretty sure that what we wanted wasn't each other." Then he smiled broadly at Grace, mischievous amusement dancing in his eyes. "Unlike you and Wayne who have been stubbornly positive of what you want despite all obstacles."

Heat rushed to her face. She thought she'd gotten good at not allowing herself to be unguarded around Jane but once again he proved himself the able marksman. She pursed her lips and smacked his arm lightly.

"We are talking about _you_, Patrick, and I suspect you're lying about how long this has been going on anyway."

"Well, you can believe what you wish, my friend."

His neutral expression was infuriating. She grabbed his left hand and shook it by his ring finger. "I'm pretty sure you weren't wearing this cheap piece of crap when I saw you on Friday. And I'm certain Boss didn't have one to match. Faked marriage or not, the least you could have done was put out for a better ring."

He lifted his hand away from her and laughed as he looked at the wedding band. "It's awful, isn't it? Kimball accused me of getting it from a gumball machine."

Grace laughed as well. "I'm confused, anyway. I just don't know what to believe. Are you really married or not? I mean, I saw the license but you've been known to forge paperwork before. And people like you and Lisbon don't decide in a week to get married."

"You're absolutely right, Grace—"

"I knew it!"

"We decided an hour before we went."

"What? Oh, come on…"

"I swear on this cheap and ugly, goldish ring, Grace." His face was as earnest as the portrait of George Washington on the one dollar bill.

Still she stared at him, not sure what the truth was. That Saturday a couple of months before, when he drove to L.A. to help her with her class, she thought their friendship had risen above having him regard her as a mark. There had been respect in his demeanor during his tutoring session, and even when he teased her about something, it was harmless, non-confrontational stuff.

And he had sincerely helped her. The class went more smoothly once she learned some of his techniques. Yes, she would have passed the class anyway, but with his help, she actually excelled. So why would he screw around with her now? The whole thing sounded so suspicious, but she really wanted to believe him.

"You two both impulsively decided on Saturday evening to get married," she said skeptically. "Just like that."

"Well…no… I'm sure it had a lot to do with the wonderful dinner I'd cooked for –"

A small whimper came from Teresa. Grace jumped out of Patrick's way as he scrambled out of bed.

"No! God…" Teresa sighed softly. Once again her face tightened and turned red.

Patrick gingerly lifted her and Grace moved forward to help hold her up as he resumed the same position as before. Teresa's arm flailed, hitting him in the thigh twice, and when Grace grabbed it, Teresa became more agitated, fighting the restraint and whimpering louder.

"Let her go, Grace," Patrick said quickly. "It's fine."

Teresa hit him even harder until he began to speak in her ear. Grace watched the rapid eye movements under Boss's lids as her face released from her pained squint. The darting slowed, her thrashing reduced, her panting seemed to be helping her catch her breath again. "Love…" she said softly.

"I love you too, Teresa." A tear escaped his eye as he rested his cheek against her head. "Relax. I'll be here always."

He slid his hand under her fist on his leg and she immediately grabbed it.

"Patrick!" Her eyes fluttered and Grace thought she was waking up.

"Go back to sleep, my dear," he said. "Right now, you just want to sleep."

"Mawr…awh… safe?"

Even Grace had to smile at that. Patrick chuckled.

"Yes, we're safe here and it's nice and warm. Fireplace. Warmth. Soft music. A glass of wine. Comfortable. Relaxed."

"Ex?"

Patrick glanced at Grace but looked away immediately.

"Later, my dear. In the morning. I'm sleepy right now and so are you. Back to sleep now."

Grace clamped her lips between her teeth and turned away as she struggled not to laugh with embarrassment. _Boss just asked him for sex! Oh my God…_

She didn't turn back until his voice dropped to a whisper and then went silent. After helping him settle Teresa back on her pillow, she assisted him into his bed again. Then she excused herself and left for the main women's restroom near the nurses' station where she locked the door and released full belly laughs into her bunched up jacket.

Oh, she couldn't wait to tell Wayne!

* * *

_**To be continued...**_


	26. Chapter 26

**_Thanks once again to Cumberland River Relic for advice and support. Thanks, CRR._**

* * *

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

When Grace returned to the room, Boss was asleep, peace still enveloping her face. A nurse was with Jane, placing a fresh bandage on his wound.

"Mr. Jane, you need to stay in bed," the nurse said firmly. "Your surgeon spent a lot of time stitching you closed, and here you are trying to open yourself up again. We know you're smarter than that."

"Aw, Emily, you also know I just want to hold my wife's hand once in a while."

Emily the Nurse gave a smile of amusement as she taped the gauze pad over his iodine-stained wound. Grace's eyes widened and then she diverted them when she realized how much bare skin was exposed because the nurse had pushed up Patrick's hospital gown to access his dressings. She crossed to Boss's bedside and caressed a strand of brunette hair off Teresa's face.

_Holy crap! Where did the generally inert Patrick Jane get six-pack abs?_

"When you get better, you can wander the whole hospital if you want, but for now you'll have to content yourself with sweet words. I'm sure you can still be persuasive from six feet away, Mr. Jane."

"Please call me 'Patrick'. And you know, this could all be easily avoided if the hospital would just offer the option of king sized hospital beds. Imagine the cost savings if you doubled up on your occupancy."

Grace rolled her eyes when the middle-aged nurse giggled like a school girl. "Charming Jane" was back. How often had she seen _this_ act?

"Patrick, as logical as your suggestion seems, I suspect you don't spend enough time in hospitals to know what we need to get our patients well…There! That's cleaned up. Please don't get out of bed. We don't want you to start bleeding again."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll stay put."

When the nurse left, Grace turned to smirk at him. "How to win friends and influence people, eh, Patrick? What happened to the demanding bastard from this morning?"

"Ah, remember what I told you years ago, my young friend. 'A little bit of bitch and a little bit of nice.' Besides, I have a soft spot for nurses. Doctors are the bane of their existence, and I bet there are times they despise doctors almost as much as I do."

Grace scoffed. "Considering doctors saved your life yesterday, that seems an ungrateful thing to say."

The muscles in Patrick's jaw flexed in tension as his gaze dropped to Teresa Lisbon.

"Yes… you're right, Grace. I owe them a couple of lives, don't I?"

"Which makes it time for the 'little bit of nice', don't you think?"

Again his face twitched but back towards amusement. "Grace, that was an excellent response. I've seen you verbally spar with nearly everyone at CBI…except Lisbon and me. I find it interesting that you checked me off your list. I understand why you'd hold off with me since I'll keep going until I find something hurtful to say. So is Teresa next?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the smug expression on his face. Of course this whole observation was part of the sparring match, if she understood anything about Patrick Jane. No doubt he didn't care to hear when he was being mean. At the same time, he was speaking truth about verbal entanglements with him. She generally avoided getting into it with him because ultimately there was no winning. But was he right about Lisbon?

Of course he was. Apart from the occasional teasing that alleviated the daily pressure of working serious crime in California, the whole team paid full respect to Boss.

Except Jane although he used to show respect in his own way, up until that whole Lorelei Martins thing. Their relationship turned a little scary for a while after that. By the end of his absence to Vegas, the team was certain they were going to lose her in an emotional meltdown, and they blamed him for driving her to the brink. It took a while for them to find forgiveness, even after they were let in on the entire story. The group began to return to its old dynamic, especially when Jane started to behave like his old self again.

_And now Jane and Lisbon are married_.

Grace was still having trouble getting her head around that concept.

"I have only the greatest respect for Boss," she said firmly in answer to his question.

Patrick sighed and stared up at the ceiling, a contented smile spreading across his face. "Me too, Grace."

"Well, I would hope so," she said, turning back to tuck the blanket closer around Lisbon.

"'Is there no respect of place, persons, or time in you?'" Jane said in a dramatic voice, obviously quoting something.

She glanced back over her shoulder at him. "Say what?" she asked.

"Shakespeare," came Cho's voice from by the door. He entered, rolling a suitcase and with an armful of clothes which looked like bathrobes. "And no, Jane, you aren't a respecter of people, places or occasion."

Patrick chuckled. "Refreshing, Kimball. You're my literary sounding board."

"That you don't listen to," Cho said, placing the items at the foot of Patrick's bed.

"Oh, I listen. I just don't acknowledge."

"Whatever. I found your robe in the room but none for Lisbon."

"She had been wearing it," Patrick answered softly.

"And I only found pajama bottoms for you."

"That'll do. This lovely hospital issued garment will do fine. They say I'm getting out of here in a day or two. Oh, hey, did you get your phone calls done?"

Cho glanced at Grace and then glared at Patrick. "Yes, all of them."

"And everything is okay?"

"Fine."

That was when Grace noticed the ring that Cho started to spin unconsciously. Her mouth dropped open and she looked at Patrick who was grinning like a trouble-making imp. She looked back at her co-worker.

"Cho?"

"What?"

She pointed to his hand. He grunted with exasperation and dropped his hands to his side, rolling his eyes.

She couldn't help herself. She rushed forward and gave Cho a big hug.

"I'm so happy for you, Kimball! I was so worried that you'd end up… uhm…"

Hesitantly Cho returned her embrace but then pulled away.

"So where did you meet her? What's her name?"

"I met her when I went to Korea with my mother last year. Her name is Ae-cha and she's my mother's childhood friend's daughter. And before you ask, we got married six months ago and the baby is due in 18 weeks."

"See?" Jane said. "Don't you feel better having all this out in the open?"

"Advice from you on sharing secrets has a certain amount of irony, don't you think, Jane?"

Grace tossed a big smile at Patrick who grinned back.

"We won't need anything from you, Grace," Patrick said. "We all know your secrets."

The smile stripped from her face. "Shut up, Patrick."

* * *

_**To be continued...**_


	27. Chapter 27

**_Another round of applause for my wonderful beta reader Cumberland River Relic! Woot!_**

* * *

_Chapter 27 I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

When Rigsby returned from the site of the fire, he had only minimal information to share, but Patrick found it hard to listen to it anyway.

The place had burned to the ground, and preliminarily there had been no indication that there was even arson involved. Rigsby pushed a little, sharing Jane's incident statement with the Reno Fire Marshall who sent a team of specialists. Those experts finally found accelerants carefully placed so as to be difficult to ascertain. They also uncovered evidence that the office where the Tybors' bodies had been found was barricaded in a manner intended to burn so it left no trace that it prevented the door being opened. From the positions of the bodies, it was likely they were alive until overcome with smoke inhalation.

_The man was insanely cruel but a certifiable genius. Where could he have gone in life if his antisocial personality disorder hadn't made him so evil?_

Patrick closed his eyes and settled back into his pillow, heaving a sigh.

"So has everyone eaten?" Rigsby asked. "There's a sandwich shop up the road, so I th—"

Teresa groaned lightly, and Patrick threw off his covers to cross to her side. Her eyelids fluttered and she lightly smacked her lips as though trying to remove a bad taste from her mouth. He took her hand in his.

"It's all right, Teresa," he said, watching her eyes for signs of rapid eye movement. She was no longer dreaming; she was reviving.

She squinted – Patrick wasn't sure if it was against light or against pain – and lolled her head back and forth weakly.

Because his energy was draining quickly, he sank onto the edge of the bed. He placed her hand on his cast and stroked it with his left hand. What would she remember? He almost hoped that she'd suffer a dissociative fugue so she could concentrate on healing, not on the horror of "what dids" and "what ifs".

Her soft groan pierced his heart as she opened her eyes and looked around vaguely.

"What the hell," she croaked. "I hope they got the plate number off the bus that hit me."

"Welcome back, my dear," he said, smiling in a reassuring manner.

She looked at him blankly, puzzled about something, like a bit of the world was out of place. Then she pulled back her hand.

"What the hell, Jane? Where are we?" Despite the weakness in her voice, there was fire as well.

_Jane? _He was starting to get a bad feeling.

"We're in Reno General Medical in Nevada," he answered softly.

Anger filled her expression, bringing color to her face. The beeping monitors began to speed up and Patrick glanced at Cho before pointing at the cup and straw Patrick had been using with his lunch.

"Water, please."

Teresa looked warily at him as he held the cup for her to sip from. She lifted her head and took a small sip before sighing. Her gaze darted from Cho to Van Pelt to Rigsby before settling on him again. Wary turned to irritated.

"I feel like garbage," she said. "What happened? I don't quite…" Her fingers began to gently pluck at her abdomen, sensing the bandages under the bedclothes. She pushed the sheet down and her hospital gown up, seeming to be unaware that she was nude except for layers of gauze and Tegaderm and the surgical tape holding a drain to the hole in her side near her left hipbone. The beeping monitor seemed to be racing now.

"Calm," he said, taking her wrist with assurance and confidence.

"Calm! I can't be calm, Jane. Did you crash my car? Is that why we're here?"

_'Jane' again. Damn it._

"Boss –" Rigsby began, looking away.

Patrick glared at him just as Cho clipped Rigsby's arm. Teresa's anxiety returned from anger as she covered herself again, as if realizing her exposure. Probably not as quickly as she would have liked, since her movements were still sluggish. She winced at she reached for the sheet. He helped her bring it further up until she tried to smack his hand away.

_She thinks I'm taking liberties. _

"It's your lucky day, Lisbon," he said, easing off her bed. "It's time for me to step out of the room."

As he hobbled to the foot of his bed to take up his robe, Cho stepped closer.

"Where are you going?"

"Just to that sitting area where the visitors are allowed," he said, donning the robe and his slippers. "I think we need to give her some space."

"She doesn't remember getting married." Cho said it as simple fact, shocking Patrick into meeting his eyes.

In reply, he took a deep breath, closed his robe and walked out into the hall. By the time he'd reached the visitor reception area, his side felt engulfed in flame. If he showed it, however, the nursing staff – particularly Emily – would haul his sorry ass back to his bed. He stood at the window, staring out at the late afternoon scene. His gaze fell onto the interstate highway, flooded with rush-hour traffic. Focus slipped away as he used the steady pattern in an attempt to induce self-hypnosis to dampen the pain.

People filled those cars, traveling home, not giving a damn that the modern-day Jack the Ripper was now a broken corpse in a cold drawer at the morgue. They cared for their family and friends and work. What time is the kids' soccer practice on Saturday? Is the dry cleaning was ready? What tie is appropriate for the business meeting?

They also didn't care that Teresa Lisbon had driven from her mind the fact she was his lover, that she married him with the idea it would be forever, for better or for worse.

The throbbing in his abdomen wasn't decreasing at all. His belly pain flared like a misfired sky rocket bouncing against his stomach, stabbing its sharpened point around the cavity. He wanted to scream because he knew it might do some good, but it wasn't helpful to his immediate situation. They would force him back to his room into a situation he really didn't want to face at the moment.

The fact was Lisbon's mind equated her relationship with him directly to her horror from Red John. Her mind was right. He was the reason she was almost dead, that it was still possible for complications of her wounds to create a hellish illness for her, maybe even kill her. Good God, he poisoned the very flower he cherished.

His stomach roiled at the thought. The flood of adrenalin through his system created rage and guilt, a familiar combination that he'd experienced before, a combination that had driven him into madness.


	28. Chapter 28

**_What a trooper! Cumberland River Relic has a terrible head cold and he STILL beta'd this chapter so I could get it out to you! Thanks, CRR!_**

* * *

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

Cho watched Jane leave, uncertain about following the blond man to make sure he didn't do something foolish. Releasing a soft sigh, Cho returned to Lisbon's bedside where Van Pelt was stroking stray hairs back from Lisbon's face which was pinched in discomfort.

"You'll be all right, Boss," Cho said.

"What's going on? How did I end up in the hospital with glass cuts all over me? Did something come through the windshield of the car or something?"

Cho ignored Van Pelt and Rigsby when they tried to meet his eye. Gently he pushed his way in front of Van Pelt to take her place and hold Lisbon's hand. There had to be a way to prompt the boss's memory about the relationship with Jane without being confrontational.

And in a flash of Jane-like insight, he knew what it was.

"Boss, do you know how in the course of investigations, we sometimes come across a challenging dysfunctional family? And sometimes the family dynamic completely shifts when a lot of secrets are brought to the surface because of what we uncover."

Lisbon stared at him a moment, probably wondering either 'what is prompting Cho to speak the most words in a row to me than he had in months?', or 'what deep dark secret is he trying to break to me gently?'

"Usually it's a good thing," Cho continued, "because it clears the air and improves communication."

Cho squeezed her hand, knowing she would likely look at their clasped hands. She did just what he'd anticipated and grasped when she absorbed what she was looking at.

"You're married?" she asked. "Wha…I mean, when did that hap—" Then she froze and looked at her own hand. "_I'm_ married… to Patrick…I…" She squeezed Cho's hand tightly. "How could I forget that?" In panic, she looked at him again, trying to sit up until he pushed her back. "What else have I forgotten? What happened?"

Cho looked at Van Pelt and gestured with his head. "Go get Jane." To Lisbon, he said, "You've been through a helluva weekend, Boss, but it's better if you cut yourself some slack. Just relax while we get your husband back in here so he can assure himself that you're both fine, okay?"

* * *

Patrick leaned against the window frame, still watching the distant traffic.

_Run_, a tiny voice said. Now that she'd forgotten their love affair, his withdrawal from her wouldn't mean anything. Cho would have to keep his opinions about it to himself since it was now Teresa's choice.

Another voice bellowed a new thought immediately. _Don't be a dumbass! I love her._ He wouldn't give her a choice about whether or not she remains married to him. She had been in a healthy state of mind when she agreed to marry him. She would be healthy again, and he would be there until then.

"Patrick, she remembers!" Grace said, bursting into the room. She grabbed his hand and tugged.

"What, Grace? What does she remember?"

"That you're married. But now she's asking about why she's in the hospital and we don't know what to tell her. C'mon!"

Despite the jolts of pain through his body, he took long strides back to the room, pretty sure Emily the Nurse would soon be yelling at him for break-through bleeding again. He grinned at the Nevada state trooper at the door as he entered the room.

"…When it comes back to you," Cho was saying. "These things take time."

Cho glanced up and stepped out of the way as Patrick approached. Teresa's mouth opened in a small gasp before her eyes flooded with tears. He sat at her side and kissed her gently, tears flowing down his own face.

"I love you, Teresa," he said. "So much, my dear."

"I love you, Patrick. How could I forget that?"

"It doesn't matter." He wiped her cheeks with his left hand before kissing her again. "Everything will come back eventually."

Still, she looked worried, an emotion he understood completely, having woken in a fugue himself in the past. It left him feeling paranoid and incomplete, like there was a danger that couldn't be prepared for. Teresa was a cop. She understood that survival depended upon advanced preparation. She had the three Glocks to prove just that.

How to reassure her that she is safe now? Although things aren't entirely normal, they were okay. _She_ was okay.

He plastered his showman grin on his face, an established signal to her that he was about to say something cheeky. Beyond cheeky. Something outrageous. "Besides, you've remembered the most important part: me."

She released a choked laugh. "That's the most important, huh? Jane, you're insufferable, sometimes."

"Keeping you on your toes is a full time job, Agent Lisbon. Just imagine how dull your life would be without me working so hard at it."

"At least you're working hard at something," she grinned.

Grace's stifled laugh combined with Wayne's groan.

"Okay, I'm starting to freak out here," he said. "Could you guys go back to not being so sweet on each other?"

"Should be fairly easy," Cho said, his voice flattening to his standard delivery. "You've been married, what? Twenty-two hours? It's pretty understandable that you'd forget that you tied the knot with this charlatan, Mrs. Jane."

Patrick resisted staring at Cho like Teresa did, but his heart filled with deep gratitude. Yes, that was a consideration; Teresa hadn't forgotten because she connected it with her traumatic experience. She'd forgotten because it was simply too new and too close to other memories that she didn't want to recall. Teresa was a smart woman but her memory storage was a mess.

He gave her a gentle peck on the lips and released her hand.

"I'm drained," he said with sincerity, holding his cast to his side. "I think I'd better return to my bed."

"What happened to your arm?" she asked.

"I broke my hand on a shoe," he said, climbing down.

"On a shoe?"

"It was a hard shoe," he grunted, climbing onto his bed and under the covers. "You know, I think our heavy guns should go home…or their hotel rooms. We still have to catch up on our beauty sleep."

"I want to hear about Cho's marriage," Teresa said.

Cho retrieved his coat and headed for the door. "Her name is Ae-Cha, I met her in Korea, we've been married six months and the baby is due in four and a half months. There's nothing else to tell. See you in the morning." And he was gone.

Van Pelt gave Rigsby an awkward glance and moved to get her jacket as well. "We're going to go too…let you get your rest."

"Yeah… yeah, we'll go," Rigsby said.

"Cowards." Patrick grinned. "Leaving me to be cross-examined by myself, eh?"

Van Pelt glared at him briefly. "Good night, Boss. Jane? Try not to break anything else on shoes, okay?"

Patrick laughed at both her remark and Teresa's confused expression.

"Good night," he said as they exited.

* * *

_**To be continued...**_


	29. Chapter 29

**_As usual, a big, grateful shout out to Cumberland River Relic for being an extraordinary beta reader! Muchos gracias, CRR! You caught some stuff and questioned some stuff but overall were great support. I appreciate it. Everyone should go check out Director Cho's Retirement Party. Wonderful 'warm-fuzzies' story!_**

* * *

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

He didn't need to be a mentalist to know she was looking at him, expecting an explanation about his cast, their confinement to hospital beds, the memories she couldn't recall…and a hundred other questions.

"So…" he said, reaching for the nurse call button. "Let's tell the staff you're awake so they can poke and prod you until you have no appetite for the congealed baby food they'll serve us for dinner."

"You're really selling it, sweetheart. Thanks." The slight sarcasm in her voice reassured him. Perhaps she was feeling better.

"Is it any consolation that the eggs were terrible this morning?"

It made her smile which made him smile.

"A small one. Besides, I'm not hungry anyway…So… tell me what happened."

"What do you remember?"

"I remember getting married. And a really hot, uhm, wedding night."

"Melted that tiramisu right off the fork," he said, giving her a grin.

"Oh, yeah! I remember the tiramisu. That was almost as good as… uhm…"

"The sex?" he asked, knowing the flush that would come to her face. He was right. "Glad it was memorable."

"That seems to be all I can remember. I woke because the phone was ringing…but then…I can't seem to remember anything. Did we get into a car accident? Why am I all cut up like this?"

"Well… we had sex in the shower and got so rowdy, we fell through the glass door."

Her expression was priceless, a cross between her doubt that it could happen that way and desperately wanting it to fit into the void within her brain. Her lips twisted as she fought the smile.

"We… did what? No… that didn't happen, you liar."

"Come up with a better story," he said, reaching for the book Cho had brought him. _A Tale of Two Cities_, by Dickens. Must have come out of Cho's car. It looked well-thumbed.

"No, _you_ come up with a better story," she said. "Like, maybe, the truth?"

"Sorry, that's how I remember it. And that's the memory I am going to cherish like a small gem… or a small lump of compressed carbon that was once a dinosaur or a fern or—"

"Couldn't you hypnotize me to help me remember?"

"No, because there would be too much temptation to implant a suggestion that you'll turn into a nymphomaniac if someone should say the word 'tiramisu'. I mean, it would be nice to get laid on demand like that, but it might be trouble if we had to investigate the death of an Italian pastry chef."

The nursing staff entered as she laughed, saving him from any pushback on her part. They did poke, prod and test her until she turned grumpy. They also informed her that because of her gastro-intestinal damage, they were keeping her on the I.V. to give her intestines a chance to heal.

Patrick froze when she asked the question he hoped she wouldn't.

"Nurse, what is the extent of my injuries? Tell me what happened to me, please."

Just as Nurse Emily opened her mouth to respond, Patrick threw himself off the far side of his bed, his cast hitting against the wall, his right side slamming into the floor. He yelled at the unexpected intensity of the pain. The nursing staff all rushed to help him into bed and check his wound and his cast. He assured them he was fine, that he leaned too far when reaching for his book. When they found that he was all right, they returned to Teresa, asking what her question was.

Instead of answering Emily, Teresa stared at him, her face a combination of concern and sadness. "Okay, Patrick, I understand. There's something you don't want me to know right now."

"Don't force things," he said, allowing the pleading in his voice. "Your memory will return in due time, when you're better able to handle it. Give yourself a chance to get stronger, my dear."

"I'm strong now," she said, her lips tight against the words.

"Yes," he said. "But just concentrate on allowing yourself to heal."

He looked at Emily the Nurse who nodded gently. Then she directed her two assistants to exit the room. "We'll return later with your mouth rinse, but don't drink any more water." She looked warningly at Patrick as she left.

"Patrick?"

"Yes, dear wife?"

"Next time, just tell me not to ask. Don't throw yourself to the floor. I don't want you to hurt yourself on my account."

"Yes, dear wife." The irony made him smile.

* * *

If she had more energy, there would have been a verbal dance around the subject of her memories, but fortunately she fell asleep. He had plenty of redirects and misinformation to share in the form of humorous response, but it would only increase her frustration with both the situation and him.

He turned on the television with the volume low and ate the pale watery food set before him. Around 8pm he took a short walk for exercise to help him get to sleep.

Just after ten, soft sighs woke him from a light slumber. He sat up, listening for signs of distress. They came.

"Don't… God… don't…please…"

He turned on the lamp over his bed and went to her side, carefully taking her hand. "It's okay, my dear. It will all be okay."

"No…stop…stop…!"

As he moved to place himself behind her, she woke.

"Red John," she gasped, staring at him. Her eyes began to water and her jaw tensed. "He…he's Bertram?"

"What did you dream?"

"I-I-I…got…tasered," she stammered. "A-a-and he punched me. He tied…me." She stared at her wrist. He didn't think she'd noticed the slight red marks earlier. Maybe she had but didn't understand what they signified. "It wasn't…a dream. He…he tied me and…and… a knife. He had a curved…a linoleum knife. He sliced…"

Patrick moved to sit against her pillow. He slid his arm behind her back, encouraging her to lean against him. Her body grew stiff as reality dawned on her.

"That's where the cuts are from," she sniffled. "A-a-and this thing in my side. And he tasered me twice. But…did…? Did he…?"

"No, Teresa," he assured her, hugging her gently to avoid pressing her wounds. He knew what she was trying to ask. "He didn't sexually assault you. That wasn't his purpose to be there."

"Where is he now?"

"Morgue. The body is being guarded by Nevada State Highway Patrol."

She gasped softly and grabbed his hand at her side. "He's dead."

"Yes," he said softly. "A Truckee cop shot him in the neck."

He left it at that. To explain the whole event now would distress her, and it was traumatic enough just contemplating that the world was a completely changed place. Besides, he knew his woman; she'd read all the reports anyway, as soon as she could get her hands on them.

To Patrick, Red John's death still felt like a dream, as though Red John had managed to pull one over on the world once more and somehow got Patrick to kill the wrong man again.

But, no, he hadn't. The deep hatred and swirling madness that resided in those eyes when Bertram tried to pull Patrick off the balcony with him couldn't be faked by a mere minion about to fall eleven stories. It was definitely Red John.

"Patrick, I'm sorry."

He returned from his thoughts with surprise.

"Whatever for, Teresa?"

"That…that you didn't…God, I can't believe I'm saying this—"

"I'm satisfied with all that happened, Teresa. Most importantly, you're alive. And you still love me despite the years of trouble I've been to you. That's all I want, that you love me."

"Of course I still love you. Of course I do."

He placed a soft kiss on her head and rested his cheek against her.

"God, I wish I could turn over so I could hug you," she said softly.

"Me too, my dear. Soon enough, I'm sure."

"What… happened, Patrick? What kind of damage did he do?"

"Tomorrow, love. Let the doctor explain it all in the morning. Right now you need to go back to sleep. Do you need me to help? Maybe a light trance?"

With a soft grunt, she pushed herself closer to him. "Can you stay until I fall asleep?"

"Of course, I can. Now…just breathe. Count one, inhale. Count two, exhale." He matched his breaths with his words. "One, inhale, two exhale… One… two…one…two. Easy does it. Nice and slow."

Soon her grip on his hand relaxed and he changed to cradle her hand in his, just as he cradled her with his arm. After giving the crown of her head another soft kiss, he let his head drop back and counted his own breath in beats of two. One...two...

* * *

_**To be continued...**_


	30. Chapter 30

**_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting. _**

* * *

Teresa woke to a stern voice directed at "Mr. Jane", telling him to get back in his bed. The warmth disappeared from under her, making her grumble, but she smiled when a gentle kiss pressed to her lips.

"Love you, Teresa."

She opened her eyes just as he turned towards his bed.

"Love you too, Patrick."

"Mrs. Jane, it's time for your pills."

Letting out a little groan, she nodded and opened her mouth to accept them. What was that ironic joke that her mother told her long ago? _Nurses wake you from a sound sleep in order to give you pills that make you sleep…_

"No!" Patrick yelled, turning back and shoving the nurse with his body. The woman fell on Teresa's legs; the pills and the cup of water went flying. "Help! Help!"

"Patrick? What the hell-?"

Patrick pulled the nurse off and threw her to the floor, and then all Teresa could see was the back of his head. He sat on her? She rubbed her eyes, hoping to clear the strange vision.

The woman screeched like a harpy. A uniformed officer rushed into the room, weapon drawn, his gaze flying around the situation. Teresa could make out the word _Nevada_ on one of his patches.

"Harlan, I think this is an imposter –"

"Get off me, you fucking buffoon!" a muffled voice screamed. "How dare you!"

"Call for backup or security or something," Patrick continued. "Or at least find someone to confirm this person's employment here."

"Let her up, Mr. Jane."

"No. Not until you call."

"I have a gun on her."

"I don't care."

"Patrick, what the hell?" Teresa asked again.

The trooper changed the channel on his radio and called for assistance. "Security, Officer Brokster of NHP, I have a 415 in room 521. Need assistance please." Then he changed the channel again. "Dispatch, 4983."

"Go ahead, 4983."

"I have a 415 with possible 217, Reno General Medical. 10-25 hospital security."

Teresa recognized the 'hundred codes' immediately. _Disturbance with possible assault with intent to murder?_

A damn machine beeped in her ear, one of those monitors with a high-pitched, insistent and highly annoying alarm. From the sound of it, someone was having a heart attack. She wished she had something to hit it with to make it shut up.

At that moment, two nurses hurried in, both looking panicked.

"Laura! Marilyn! Here, look!" Patrick said.

"Mr. Jane?" The first nurse stepped forward, surprised to find him on the floor.

"Do you know this nurse, Laura?"

"Uh…just…just…" Laura leaned forward to examine the nurse. "She looks familiar. I-I think that's someone who works here…although not on our unit."

"So she shouldn't be trying to give my wife any pills?"

"Absolutely not." Laura straightened and crossed her arms firmly. "Mrs. Jane's meds are all I.V. and the NG tube is removing her stomach contents. She's not even allowed fluids, so pills are out of the question."

"Ha! Harlan, arrest her! Attempted murder!"

Teresa's stomach roiled despite the anti-nausea meds she'd been told she was on. She watched helplessly as Harlan brought out his cuffs and stooped over the prone nurse. Patrick dragged himself off, letting out a pained grunt that caused Teresa to gasp. He leaned against his bed, not facing her.

Metallic ratcheting clicked and Officer Brokster pulled the nurse to her feet before hauling her from the room. The nurse glared at Patrick the whole time.

"I wish _you_ were dead instead of my master!" she screamed from the door.

Laura and Marilyn pressed against the wall, staring in horror. Patrick grabbed the edge of his mattress and let out a small groan. The nurses hurried toward him.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he said, pushing them away. "Check on my wife."

This was completely unreal! Red John was dead! Patrick was hurt? How could this still be happening?

While Marilyn encouraged Patrick to get back into bed, Laura came to Teresa's bedside, folding the sheets back.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Jane?" she asked, a kind smile on her face as she checked the tubes from Teresa's body.

"She didn't touch me. Everything is all right."

Laura nodded and gently smoothed the bed clothes over her. "This all looks fine. I think your assessment is correct. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I need to call Agent Kimball Cho of the CBI."

"I'll do it," Patrick called. He picked up his phone. "Whatever you do, be careful with the pills that Nurse Wretched brought in. They could be poison, although I suspect they're a regular medicine that would react badly with Teresa's condition or one of the meds she's on. Regardless they're evidence." He grunted as he brought his legs off the sheets and tried to maneuver under them.

"Patrick? Are you okay?" Teresa asked.

"Never better, my dear."

"Don't give me that crap," she said, although she couldn't get the energy together to put much venom behind it. She was too concerned. "I can always tell when you're covering up."

"Okay, I'll admit my tackling technique still needs work. If I keep practicing like this, I'm sure I'll improve."

Damn it! She hated when he sassed back to her when she was worried about him.

"Patrick, please! Tell me the truth."

Laura took her hand and gave a reassuring smile. "We'll check on him for you."

"After I call," he said, his phone beeping as he hit speed dial. "Cho needs to— OW!"

Marilyn called to Laura who went to look. Laura tsked.

"What's wrong?" Teresa demanded.

"It's all right, Mrs. Jane. Just a little break-through bleeding. If he hadn't done it saving your life, he probably would have caused it by wandering the floor, visiting other patients."

"Or annoying staff," she said sardonically. It just came out and she recognized it as a defense mechanism against the weight of Laura's words "saving your life". And his words? Practicing tackling people? Him? This… whole…_thing_! It was unreal!

"Ow!" Patrick said again. "Have a care there, Marilyn. It's not like—Hello, Cho? They made their first attempt… Yes, we're fine. Harlan apprehended her."

Well, that was troubling. _Patrick_ was the one who stopped 'Nurse Wretched'. What a damn liar! And what else had he…?

_Oh._

She never _had_ found out what his injury was besides his hand, had she? Only that he had a wound on his right side. He wasn't on an I.V. and she'd seen him eat regular food; obviously not G.I. injury. Not in the lung since he wasn't on oxygen. What else was there in that area? Liver?

How could Red John have stabbed him in the liver? Bertram hadn't been left-handed so knife wounds would more likely be on the left side of Patrick's body as usual with right-handed assailants. Offside wounds were sometimes inflicted in close contact struggles over a weapon, although hand-to-hand combat, by his own admission to her, was not one of his strong suits. Hell, it wasn't even one of his weak suits. But that had to have been it, right?

Then she remembered the first time Patrick had met Red John. The bastard _shot_ the three college students. No, he wasn't averse to using a gun. Besides, somewhere in that dark past, Bertram had come up through the ranks of law enforcement before turning politician. He was a _damned cop_.

Again the thought made her sick. Bertram was Red John, damn it! And he'd shot her love!

"Are you home?" Patrick asked Cho. "Okay, twenty minutes then. Is Ae Cha there with you? Maybe you should bring her rather than leave her by herself in a hotel in a strange town…No, really. I think she'd feel better to— What? No, of course I—" Then he sighed heavily. "Okay, yes, I am. We don't know enough about how many the disciples there are and what they'll do now that they're leaderless and blowing in the wind. I think it's time to circle the wagons."

Two hospital security guards entered, glancing around the room. The "Boss Lisbon" aspect of Teresa's personality came out. "Whatcha got, gentlemen?"

"Can you call Wayne and Grace?" Patrick said into the phone. "We're a little busy…" He disconnected the call and looked at her. "Teresa, you need to try to relax."

"Me? What about you?" Her blood was up now. The beeping machine grew louder again. "You're tackling people with some sort of hole in your side, and you won't even tell me what's going on."

"It's a not a hole anymore. They closed it up."

"Oh, don't start working semantics with me, Patrick. I—"

Nurse Laura shoved her hands on her hips, her gaze flipping back and forth between Teresa and Patrick.

"Are you sure you're newlyweds?" she asked, interrupting.

Teresa felt the heat come to her face again. Patrick just laughed.

* * *

_**A\N: A great big Thank You to Cumberland River Relic for helping me sort out the ending for this chapter. CRR's comedic talent is evident in the piece "**_**Frasier: Pawn Girls, Gators, and Gaiters". Fun!**

* * *

_**To be continued...**_


	31. Chapter 31

**_Thank you, Cumberland River Relic for your beta-read of this and future chapters!_**

* * *

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting. _

* * *

The tumult in the upper management within CBI rippled through the system, and Cho was getting urgent texts and phone calls about every fifteen minutes. He almost wished the no-cellphone rule still existed within hospitals. He would have gladly shut his off and even removed the battery just to be sure.

Virgil Minelli had been brought out of retirement to take over from J.J. LaRoche who had been assigned to take Madelyn Hightower's place after Hightower was bumped up to Director of Law Enforcement. All of them buzzed with fear, so there were continual requests for updates.

Cho snapped his phone shut after yet another conversation with Minelli, despite it being three o'clock in the morning. He smiled softly at Ae Cha who appeared nervous. This was a foreign sight to him.

"_As much as I complain about his lack of self-discipline_," Cho said in Korean, "_I assure you that he's a good man and will not attempt to embarrass or disgrace you._"

"_I'm sure you are right, but as you have said before, he is unpredictable most of the time. This is his preference_."

"_Right now, he's focused on Lisbon, not mischief. No need to be concerned_."

Still, her usually calm and confident brown eyes were chill with apprehension. He hated to see her uneasy, knowing that the few gripes he'd expressed about Jane during that disappearance to Vegas were the cause. Ae Cha arrived in Kimball's life during the worst segment in his history with Jane and had no way of knowing the true depth of their relationship, the mutual respect they had based on admiration for one another's abilities. And how could he ever explain how it felt that Jane had helped him seek justice for the murder of his former best friend David Seung? Jane's goal of finding the truth was in line with his own, including a willingness to skirt around the strictest rule of law to get there.

She'd have to just meet him. Kimball had a great deal of faith in the deep-seeing vision of his wife. It was one of the reason he'd married her, after all.

He placed his arm around her as they exited the elevator and proceeded through the small crowd outside the hospital room. Displaying his badge, he took mental note of the officers who didn't examine it thoroughly or who didn't question the presence of the woman with him. He didn't expect perfection from the locals, but it was his responsibility to insure competence. There would be changes.

The calm inside the room surprised him until he saw that Lisbon was asleep. Van Pelt sat in a chair near her, holding her hand. Rigsby was standing near Jane, face dark, arms crossed. To judge from the self-satisfied smile on his face, Jane had been causing trouble. Probably asked how the trip to Napa had been or when the next romantic interlude was planned.

"_An nyoung_, Mrs. Cho," Jane whispered, throwing back his bedding and climbing out. Rigsby tried to stop him but Jane ignored him. He bowed but then grimaced, moving his cast to his side.

Cho was astonished at both the spoken Korean and the fact that Jane got out of bed. Despite the level of surprise, he refused to show it. He pointed to the bed again, when his wife spoke, interrupting his demand that Jane get back into it.

"Greetings to you, Mr. Jane," she said in clipped English. She bowed in return. "Please be at ease and call me Ae Cha."

"_Jeongmal_ g_amsahabnida_," he said, settling back into bed. "Please call me Patrick. And I'm sorry, that's the extent of my Korean, 'hello' and 'thank you very much'."

"Thank you for your courtesy, Patrick. I'm sure you will … continue … extending as I try speaking English."

"Absolutely."

Van Pelt introduced herself first and insisted that Ae Cha take the chair. Rigsby also stepped forward to greet her, grinning happily.

"So where do we stand? What do we know about this woman?" Cho asked.

"Nevada Highway Patrol is questioning her now," Rigsby said. "Her name is Angela Haynes and she's from Vacaville originally. Moved here about eighteen months ago after a long hospitalization recovering from being kidnapped and held captive for several weeks. Apparently, she was raped repeatedly. The assailant was never caught."

"Angela Haynes," Jane said, reclining fully into his pillows. He frowned. "That's certainly no coincidence. Red John chose very carefully for his Stockholm Syndrome subject."

"Minelli wants CBI to interview her as well," Cho continued. To Rigsby, he said, "Find out where she's being held and arrange it for later this morning."

"Yes, boss."

"Minelli also agrees with Jane that Bertram's house needs to be searched again by a different team. We need to find the Red John records as soon as we can."

"Take Ae Cha."

Cho turned to stare at Jane whose gaze was fixed on the ceiling with a far away expression. After glancing at his wife, Cho then shifted his attention to Rigsby and Van Pelt. They looked as puzzled as he felt.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I think she will surprise you. Obviously you can't take me, as much as you'd prefer my company. I'd probably end up bleeding on evidence or something." Jane finally smiled and looked at all of them individually before landing his gaze on Cho. "Besides, if Minelli has any pull, he can get a helicopter to fly you back to Sacramento. Has Ae Cha ever flown in a helicopter? It can be an experience you can share together."

"Jane…"

"Call me when you get there."

"_I don't understand what is said_," Ae Cha said in Korean. _"I heard my name."_

Cho stared at Jane a moment longer, although it was one of those 'outstare a snake' moments he generally avoided when it came to Jane. The mentalist's strong will was both emotional and physical, and biofeedback expertise only helped insure the loss.

Besides, this might also be one of those instances when running against Jane was ill-advised, the losing bet.

"_Jane is recommending you go with me when we look for more evidence,"_ Cho told his wife_. "Would you be willing?_"

"_Yes, of course, if you think I can help. Does he say why? I am not a police officer._"

Cho shook his head and looked at Jane again. "I'll arrange transportation with Minelli for this afternoon."

"As soon as possible. Noon at the latest."

"We'll see."

Jane let out a yawn. "Rough night. Teresa remembered most of what happened. It woke her with another nightmare. I got her back to sleep for a couple of hours before Sister Sociopath came in to give her a pill. I hope she sleeps for another five or six hours."

"'Rough night' is an understatement about your situation, Jane," Van Pelt said.

"Chew your trouble in small bites," he said, bringing his blanket up to cover himself to his neck. "Isn't that a Korean proverb?"

"Not that I've ever heard," Cho said.

Jane smiled and closed his eyes. "Maybe I made it up. Doesn't it make sense, though?"

"Perhaps you're thinking of instructions on how to eat an elephant. 'One bite at a time' is the appropriate response."

"Now why would I want to know how to eat an elephant? I imagine they're very tough and stringy."

Van Pelt snorted a laugh and shook her head. "You go from obsessing to being irreverent in a flash, Jane. I don't know how you decide from moment to moment which suits your mood."

"Oh that's easy, Grace. I just pick which one will irritate the most people."

Everyone laughed. Cho glanced at Ae Cha who was looking a little lost and overwhelmed, so he explained quickly. She laughed at both of Jane's quips and said, "_It takes a quick mind to do both in the same sentence."_

_"He has that covered."_ To the team, he said, "I'm going to talk to the local in charge and call for transport back to Sacramento. Does anyone want any coffee?" When everyone replied 'no', he said to his wife, "_I have to work now. I'll return soon. Will you be all right here?"_

Ae Cha bowed slightly and smiled. "_They're very good people, Kimball. They will watch over me as closely as they do Boss Lisbon."_

Cho crossed to Jane's bedside table and picked up the playing cards. "My wife knows how to play Rummy, if anyone wishes to pass the time with her."

Jane lifted his hand and opened his mouth.

"Except Jane. Apart from the fact that he cheats, he needs to go back to sleep."

Jane made a big display of pouting.

Cho crossed to his wife and kissed her gently on the crown of her head. "_Love you, sweet lady."_

_"Love you, noble man."_

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	32. Chapter 32

_Thank you,__** Cumberland River Relic**__, for your beta read of these final chapters. I always find endings the hardest to write and edit.  
__Your help has been great! I appreciate how fortunate I've been to have access to your knowledge and talent._

* * *

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

Bertram's house had been turned upside down by the previous search team, but it still displayed the classic, rich esthetic that his immaculate State House office had been decorated. Cho shook his head in a mix of dismay and wonderment as he dialed the hospital. How could a man of such refined taste be so evil?

"_He was a meticulous man, I think,_" Ae Cha said, examining the rows and rows of bookshelves. "_And very aware of the subtle effect of detail on human opinion. The decorating is established for emotional impact as opposed to practical use."_

As directed by Jane, they chose the home office to search first, although it looked like the first searchers had done a very thorough job on the whole house.

"Jane? We're here. What do you think we're looking for?"

"Let Ae Cha look around for a bit. Where is she now?"

"Bookshelves."

"Ah, yes. Good place to start. Have you ever told her about Bertram? His known personality traits?"

"Somewhat. Why?"

"Tell her everything you know for certain. Also describe him physically to her; height, weight, no glasses, contact lenses, right handed, things like that."

"Why?"

Once again, Jane didn't answer his question. "Are there bookshelves on opposite walls?"

"All four walls with hundreds of books. All sorts. Paperback pulp fiction next to leather-bound tomes."

"Describe the room."

"The door into the room is in the west wall, windows overlooking the verandah and garden to the east. Shelves flank the windows as well as the door from the foyer. There's a desk that looks a lot like the classic wooden desk from his office at the State House. Oriental rug. No plants. No pictures. Stereotype of rich bachelor."

"Hmm. Is there a wall mounted TV in the room?"

"Two, one above the other. The shelves are built around them."

"South wall?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Practicality. Less possibility of direct sunlight affecting the view."

Cho asked himself why Jane would lie with such a glib answer. Then he asked himself how he knew it was a lie.

"Tell Ae Cha to concentrate on that wall. What's in the room to the south?"

"Dining hall."

"Perfect. Inside each room, count the strides from the door to the wall. Then step out of the room and step the totaled strides from the office door to the opening for the dining room."

"You suspect a hidden room?"

"Could be. Wouldn't be the first time built-in book cases acted as a wall. And before you do that, give Ae Cha the info about Bertram being six foot three and have her look at what would be his eye-level for anything significant on the bookshelves. I have a feeling she'll know what to look for. Oh, or his desk. It's going to be obscure but easily accessed. Call me back when you find it."

"'It'? What is 'it'?"

"Whatever 'it' ends up being, Cho. It's going to be some sort of switch, but I don't want to say switch because it could be any kind of trigger at all. Understand?"

"Yes. You don't want to limit our thinking."

"Exactly. Oh, and Lisbon says 'good luck'." Then he hung up.

_Yeah, luck is exactly what I'll need._

He sighed and watched his wife who had returned to the right hand section of the shelving and seemed to be looking at each title, even though she didn't read English. Her face was the essence of deep concentration as she fidgeted with the large, perfect pearl hanging from her necklace, a gift he'd presented at their wedding. Her expression was familiar, very much like Jane's in puzzle-solving mode.

That was thought-provoking. And a little scary.

Following Jane's advice, Cho described Bertram as neutrally as possible, both in personality and in physical presence. Ae Cha smiled about the fact that the director was bald and asked Kimball to write the English words "bald", "appearance", "famous", "crime" and "psychology" for her to recognize in Western characters.

After he did, he left her looking in the office with the list in her hand while he measured the distances Jane recommended. It was a stride and a half short, inside to out. Jane was right. A secret room five feet deep?

He hurried back into the office. Ae Cha was sitting at the desk, a book open in front of her and a TV remote in her hand. She pointed it at the TV and after consulting the book, pressed a sequence of numbers. When nothing happened, she stared at the book a moment before trying again.

"_There's something behind these shelves," _he told her. "_I can get Forensics here to dismantle the wall_."

She gave a non-committing hum, flipped a page and then another. She tried another number. Still nothing. Picking up another book, she selected a certain page and looked it over. Then she grinned and pressed some more numbers.

There was the whirring of a motor and the shelving unit next to the TV moved, swinging out to reveal a straight staircase parallel to the wall and leading down. Cho stared at the dark opening for a moment and put his hand on his gun. Then he turned to his wife again who had chuckled triumphantly and started to rise to her feet.

"_Stay here. I'll be right back_," he said to her, trotting from the room.

At the front door, he found a couple of CBI agents standing guard. He ordered one to call Minelli asking him to come to the house, and told the other to accompany him. With weapons drawn, he and Agent Julie Wentworth cautiously descended the stairs. They encountered a door, which fortunately, was unlocked.

When they opened the door, they were hit with a raw-sewage smell and a faint call for help. Cho pulled out his handkerchief and offered it to Wentworth, but she waved him off, staring at the scene in front of them.

Strapped to the end of a medical exam table within the small, warm room was a young brunette woman, shallow cuts covering her nude body. Her upper body was supported by the table while her legs hung off the table, barely touching the floor.

Agent Wentworth cried out and started to rush forward, but Cho stopped her. He whipped out his phone and took one evidential photo before allowing Wentworth to continue. Then he called for an ambulance.

"Damn you, Bertram" he murmured, glancing over the victim's bruised and filthy body as Wentworth released the leather band holding the woman's chest to the plastic covered cushion and the nylon webbing binding her arms over her head toward the far end of the table. There was shit and urine down the woman's legs and possibly dried blood and semen. He couldn't bring himself to look closely at that part of her, nauseated by the idea she'd suffered there for at least three days. It almost would have been better if she'd died from the initial torture. Life from now on would be an emotional nightmare. How does someone recover from that kind of trauma? "Burn in hell, you evil bastard."

"_Kimball?_"

"_Stay there, Ae Cha! Don't come down!_"

It was too late. His wife was already at the bottom of the stairs passing through the door. She retched once but then took her coat off and hurried forward to place it on the woman where Wentworth had laid her on the exam table after releasing her.

"Dammit," Cho muttered, glancing around the cinderblock room. At the far end there was a small desk and a file cabinet. He dialed Jane's phone again and briefly explained what they'd found.

"Bring the woman out of there as quickly as possible, but don't touch anything on that desk or in the cabinet without the bomb squad there. I have a very bad feeling that it's booby-trapped."

"Understood. I'll call bomb squad. Do you think it's on a timer?"

"Probably just a trigger, but it's hard to say with Bertram. And it's probably not highly explosive, more incendiary, designed to burn the evidence. But again, who knows? And tell the explosive techs that we're trying to disarm it, not dispose of it. We need that information."

Cho shook his head. Sometimes Jane got a little condescending. At the same time, maybe it didn't hurt to spell it out.

"I'll call you back after they've taken care of it. Did you know he had someone held captive?"

"No, but it was a distinct possibility, especially since Angela Haynes was. And don't be surprised at this victim's name when you find out what it is."

Cho froze a moment. Angela Haynes had established a naming precedent. Jane was right. No doubt the first name would be Teresa and the last name would be something similar to "Lisbon".

* * *

**To be continued...**


	33. Chapter 33

_Once again,__** Cumberland River Relic**__ receives a big THANK YOU for beta-reading. Fortunately this chapter came back pretty clean, although I've changed/added a few lines for clarity sake. Any mistakes you find are my own fault. Thanks to you the reader for sticking with this story. There will be resolution soon, I promise._

* * *

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting. _

* * *

It took orders from Hightower to clear it, but Cho was able to get permission to bring the contents of the file cabinet to the hospital. With the help of several Nevada state troopers, he brought it to what Lisbon had jokingly called Bullpen East.

Cho felt a little strange ordering the team into action since Lisbon was still in the picture, but he couldn't allow her to strain herself by organizing the search of the information from Bertram's Red John files. Fortunately, she was contented with playing Rummy with Ae Cha, and Cho was never sure who was helping who. Frankly, he was surprised at how "hands off" she was remaining. Was she still suffering from her wounds or had marriage to Jane done something to her? Or the fact that she had almost been killed by Red John himself? Time would tell if she could keep her hands off the files.

With laptops and pads of paper, the rest of the team sorted file folders, marveling at the extent of the information and the number of people involved with Red John. Some of the disciples were nothing more than go-fors while others were tasked with covering a variety of crimes; everything from kidnapping to evidence tampering, from theft to money laundering. Most were documented with thorough evidence.

Van Pelt set her last file aside and came to get another stack from the box by Jane's bed.

"I have to ask, Jane. How did you know Cho should bring Ae Cha?"

Cho looked up from the papers he was examining, grateful to Van Pelt for posing the question he was sure was on all their minds. Ae Cha looked up from her card game with Lisbon at the sound of her name, as did Lisbon. Rigsby also stopped perusing files. Jane kept looking through the folder he had in his lap.

"Easy. She figured out Kimball. If that isn't evidence of her observational skills and her intelligence, I don't know what is."

Everyone chuckled except Ae Cha and Cho.

"Yes, but what made you so sure she'd help figure out _this_ situation?" Lisbon asked.

Finally Jane lifted his gaze, locking onto Ae Cha. "She's an observer. An amateur mentalist, if you will. I could tell by the way she behaved when she entered the room this morning. She had all of us figured out within the first minute. Well…except me."

Ae Cha looked at Cho, questioningly. Yes, Cho understood what Jane was talking about. He was chagrined that he hadn't seen it before. He assumed that he was just very lucky to have met her.

"Yes, Kimball, you are lucky," Jane continued, examining the file in his lap again. "I sincerely despaired that you'd never find someone worthy of you. And she's probably lucky to have found a man smart enough to keep up with her. There aren't many who can manage someone with that kind of human insight. It's a rare and cumbersome ability.

"Bertram was one of 'us' also but didn't have anyone to share the burden. It's probably what drove him into his psychosis, manifesting as heartless evil. That aloneness probably created feelings of persecution long before he started raping and murdering. It's very easy to start out with the smug know-it-all view of the world and suddenly have even the most minor event, that 'proving to be wrong just once', can turn it upside down. "

He closed the folder on his lap and sighed as he placed it on the pile. "I'm drained. Would anyone mind if I took a short nap?" Then he realized that everyone was staring. "What?"

"That was quite a monologue," Lisbon said, scoffing a little. "You're going to drop statements like that and just go to sleep?"

"Well… yes, I guess so. It won't be a very long nap. Any objections?"

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "Patrick…" It earned her a cheeky smile.

Cho shifted and closed his folder. This revelation was both thrilling and a little frightening. "Yes," he said. "What can be done with it?"

"That's a good question. You'll have to ask Ae Cha what she _wants_ to do with it."

"Kimball?"

Cho looked at his wife. She had passed beyond questioning and was now on the way to worried.

"_It's all right, my love. Jane is explaining why you were brought to Bertram's. We didn't understand your skills match his."_

_"I wish they were as good as his. I wish you could teach me to work as he does."_

Cho turned back to Jane who had brought his covers back up to his neck and had closed his eyes.

"Will you work with her?" he asked.

Jane smiled and opened his eyes slightly. He got that half-smile on his face, the one that announced he was about to make an acerbic remark. "Do I look like Mentalist University to you?"

"No, right now you look like a smart ass with a bullet hole in his side, to be honest."

The blond man laughed and brought his finger up to tap his nose. "That sounds like a mentalist observation to me." He opened his eyes fully and pushed the sheets back down. "The skills grow out of necessity. In my case, I was exposed to situations that required taking advantage of people's trust and exploiting it. I just expanded upon it to pretend to be a psychic. By the time Red John killed my family, I could spot a liar by the look in his eye because I was an expert liar myself.

"Ae Cha isn't a liar, as near as I can tell. She's probably self-preserving. Something in her history made it important that she be very observant about what was happening around her."

"She was smuggled from North Korea as a teenager," Cho admitted. "My mother's friend arranged for her to receive political asylum. Her childhood was very rough. She was a street kid."

"I figured it was something like that. Probably lived by theft and guile."

Feeling somewhat ashamed because he knew it was true, Cho struggled to keep his expression neutral, knowing his wife would interpret anything else immediately. He wasn't in a position to point an accusing finger anyway, considering his car-stealing, drug-dealing, breaking-and-entering days in the Avon Park Playboys gang.

"Cho, what she and I do isn't teachable." Jane's tone was soft and surprisingly apologetic.

"No, but you can guide it," he countered. "You can't teach an athlete how to run but you can teach him how to run better."

In a rare moment of openness, Jane's face filled with his inner conflict and hesitation.

"Let me think about it. Now that Red John is gone, I don't…" He glanced at his own wife and then looked at Cho again. Heaving a sigh, he nodded. "Perhaps we can work something out."

"Teach her about the memory palace like you taught me," Van Pelt interjected. "It will help with her English. We can _all_ help with her English, just by interacting with her, taking her to lunch or whatever."

Cho had nearly forgotten there were other people in the room. His co-workers. His team.

His family.

"Yes, I learn better English. I try."

Lisbon reached out and patted her hand, giving an encouraging smile. "Probably better than me. Er…than I do. Er…I mean, than me."

* * *

To be continued...


	34. Chapter 34

**Thanks, Cumberland River Relic! You're the best beta!**

**Go check out "It's a Mystery" that CRR just posted. You'll really enjoy it! Completely in character and the humor matches the show. Gotta love Jane/Cho interactions!**

* * *

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

When Patrick's evening meal was brought in, Van Pelt, Rigsby, Ae Cha and Cho decided to go for dinner together and return in the morning. As they prepared to leave, Rigsby snatched a cherry tomato from Patrick's salad but was out of range before Patrick could smack him.

"Your chicken smells good," Teresa said, closing her eyes. "If I had any kind of appetite, I'd try to talk you into breaking some rules and sharing with me."

"Oh, I would never break the rules, Teresa. The doctors know what's best for the patients, after all."

She grinned and waved her hand. "Who are you and what have you done with my husband?"

It was a clichéd joke but he laughed anyway. And it was true, after a manner. Not like 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers' obviously, but he felt like a different man than when they first were married. Apart from being extremely happy, he finally felt satisfied with life, less driven to grab the gold ring. He didn't recall such a transformation after marrying Annie. They were dumb, carefree kids, and they had no idea what they wanted out of life.

Now? He knew exactly what he wanted. Every morning would start calm, with Teresa in his arms, his heart warm, his head light. Every day could be peaceful and safe because Red John was gone. His followers would be rounded up for documented crimes or would scatter in fear because their leader was gone.

He set down his fork and stared at his plate a moment.

"Teresa…I have to ask you a question."

"Can I dodge the answer like you do to me all the time?" She gave him a cheeky grin. It looked familiar.

"Ha ha, funny. You must be feeling better. Your zingers are starting to land again."

"I am feeling better. So what's your question?"

"How would you feel if… if I resigned from CBI?"

Her grin faded although her beeping machine sped up. How easy mentalism would be if everyone were connected to an EKG machine!

"Quit?" she said softly.

He pushed his overbed table away and climbed from under the sheets. After sitting at her side, he reached over to attenuate the alarm and then met her gaze. Her eyes were huge and her pupils were pinpoints with fear.

"About a year ago, the Feds approached me about becoming a consultant for them in counter intelligence. At the time, I didn't even consider it because…well, you know why not. And I—"

"Who? Who asked you?"

Her hands were cold when he took them in his. He rubbed them a little before encasing them in his. "The CIA."

The color in her face – already pale – grew whiter.

"They told me there would be very little travel. They'd set me up with a cover, secure computer, secure phone, even a new identity if I wanted. I think I'm in a position to even dictate some terms."

"But I don't want to leave CBI!" she blurted.

"I would never ask that," he said calmly. "You are meant to be a CBI agent, Teresa. I predict that you will turn down promotions so you can be in the thick of some murder investigation."

"But…why would you _want_ to leave CBI? Don't you…like what we do?" She looked around the room, like a rabbit looking to escape the wolf.

"I…Well…To be honest, my dear, the only thing we get called for is murder among of the rich and connected. And they're not even very clever about how they're killing each other anymore."

"So you…you were only staying because you wanted to get Red John."

Shame stayed his tongue and he found he couldn't meet her eyes for a moment. They both knew of his desire for revenge and he didn't want to go back over his desire to gather minions.

"I've promised to be honest with you about our relationship, so yes, Red John was a very big reason I stayed with CBI."

Her face fell along with a single tear.

"But another reason I stayed was you. And I will if you ask. Ultimately, my life is about you."

Again she glanced around as if looking for escape. "Now how can I possibly ask you to do that? You just told me to do what I want. How can _I_ ask that you do what you _don't_ want?"

"Because if you lie about what will make you happy, I will be _truly_ miserable."

The dam broke. The tears flowed. Patrick swallowed hard and crawled into bed with her, holding her from the side as best he could.

"Stay with me, Patrick. I can't… deal…"

"I'll stay, my dear. As long as you need me to, I'll stay with CBI."

* * *

_**To be continued...**_


	35. Chapter 35

**How many ways can I thank CRR for beta reading? Well... dunno, but here's another way. Thanks for your help with this chapter!**

* * *

_I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

"You look nervous, Jane."

Patrick looked at Cho, briefly wishing to punch that smug non-expression off his face. Of course, Patrick didn't punch people. Least of all someone who could _and_ _would_ break his arm in three seconds. Instead he flexed his right hand with the passing thought that it had been 394 days since the cast had been removed. Strange thoughts to have, actually. He recognized avoidance in himself when he saw it.

"I've never looked nervous in my life, Kimball, and I resent you stating that something could possibly be bothering me."

And yet it did bother him. What if she wasn't there?

"This shouldn't be a big deal to you. I mean, it's already done. This is just a formality."

Patrick turned towards the window and squared his shoulders.

"I'm thinking of Teresa, mostly."

"You're nervous for Lisbon? Why? Are you going to say something to upset her?"

Rigsby chuckled. "I can just imagine what's going through _her_ head right now."

Patrick felt something on his shoulder; Cho was running a lint roller over the tuxedo jacket.

"Avoid any philosophical discussions," Cho advised, moving it across his back. "Just say 'I do' when the priest gives you the cue and kiss Lisbon when he says to."

"I've been to a couple of weddings," Patrick said smartly. "Including two of my own. I think I recall how it goes."

"Neither of those were in a church, were they? Are you afraid of lightning strikes?"

Rigsby laughed and Patrick gave a half-smile.

"Hardly, although I would like this to go off perfectly for her."

"Showing up is the important part."

"There was never any doubt that I'd be here."

Patrick turned back in time to see Cho give a significant glance at Rigsby.

"And what did that mean?" he asked

"What did what mean?" Cho asked without inflection in his voice.

Patrick crossed to the small mirror on the wall of the monsignor's vestry and checked that his green silk ascot was tucked properly into the monochromatic ivory paisley vest. Again he adjusted the dark walnut colored cutaway jacket on his shoulders. Lisbon had surprised him with the choice of a Victorian theme. In some ways his conservative wife was very old-fashioned as well.

"Patrick, we know you're leaving CBI," Cho said. "We don't know when but it's obvious it will be soon since you're not happy."

"And why shouldn't I leave?" he asked, turning on Cho. "Teresa doesn't investigate crime anymore and I'm not wild about creating the position 'Special Consultant to Special Agent in Charge'."

"You're helping us," Rigsby said. "Major Crimes Unit and Serious Crimes Unit. Even Grace's unit."

A feeling of self-satisfaction flooded through Patrick. In some ways, working with Cyber Crimes was the best part of his continued relationship with CBI. It was new and different, a nice challenge. Especially tracking down identity thieves.

But he still chafed. The Bureau was getting too familiar to him and they were too familiar _with_ him. 'Pulling stunts', as Teresa called it, had immediate consequences close to home, specifically the small Craftsman-style bungalow they recently bought together in Davis, California. The cost of rebellion was too high to consider anymore. The prices of constraint and restraint were being demanded instead.

"Ae Cha is nearly ready to fly solo. Red John's been dead for fifteen months. Besides, the CBI doesn't need a full-time mentalist anymore. It's now perfect for a potential part-time employee expecting her second child."

Cho couldn't stop the slight smirk that came to his lips, but he wiped it away quickly. "So what would you do instead?"

Patrick reached towards Cho's ear and pulled out a coin. "Kids' birthday parties, bar and bat mitzvahs, local weather reporting on the morning news. Any manner of light entertainment."

"Until you run out of quarters." Cho took the coin and tucked it into his tuxedo pocket. He glanced at the clock. "Let's go. The bride is allowed to be late but not the groom."

As he and Cho followed the priest Father Gabruda to the altar, Patrick once again absorbed the beauty of a church decorated extravagantly with dozens of flower arrangements and miles of sparkling tulle in their wedding colors of pastel green, soft peach and white. Although not completely filled, the pews contained many friends and family: half of the Sacramento CBI office, Hightower, LaRoche, Mashburn, Pete, Sam and other carnie friends, even his former brother-in-law Daniel Ruskin. It was exactly as he envisioned for his lovely bride, a romantic fairyland setting to fit the perfection of the day.

The strangest part – although it followed, based on their relationship – was that he had planned pretty much the whole thing except the wedding attire. He'd promised himself that he'd provide her with a royal wedding, an elaborate production to honor his queen.

Too bad it took her twelve months to come 'round to his way of thinking.

Processional music started, cueing Grace and Wayne to enter as bridesmaid and groomsman. Hightower's kids followed as flower girl and ring bearer. Annabeth came next as Teresa's maid of honor. The priest bid the guests to stand and the Bridal March music began. In the narthex, Virgil Minelli stepped to the opening with Teresa on his arm.

Patrick gasped softly. He had peeked online at the dress she'd chosen despite tradition prohibiting it, but a digital photo hadn't done it justice. Or maybe it was just the sweetness of his wife's appearance. Regardless, he consciously had to lock his knees to keep them from buckling.

Beside him, Cho softly said, "Whoa… Boss…"

She was gorgeous. Her rich dark hair was in a bun with loose ringlets hanging at her temples, accented with seafoam colored ribbons instead of a veil. The green in her eyes glowed like the emeralds in her necklace, visible to him even across the church. The satin and lace gown hugged her delightful curves to the waist and then flowed into ruffles reaching to the floor. His angry little princess was most definitely his lovely queen today.

"She walks in beauty…"

"…Like the night," Cho added the rest of Lord Byron's line of poetry.

He looked at him and was greeted with a slight smile. There was something on Cho's mind. Patrick leaned toward him slightly.

"Confess."

"Okay, I admit it. I've had a mild crush on her since our days together in San Francisco."

Patrick chuckled. "That would be easy to develop. Although Grace was mine when she first joined the team. Completely innocently, of course."

"This isn't exactly the most appropriate time to discuss this." Cho looked up at the choir loft and shifted uncomfortably.

"No, it should have happened at last night's bachelor party but neither of us got drunk, unlike everyone else there so…"

"Shut up, Jane."

Patrick chuckled again and returned his full attention to his bride who was now a dozen feet away. Her makeup was light and natural, just as he liked it, although her lipstick was a bit darker than usual but twice as kissable. Her eyes were shining with happiness and just a little self-satisfaction. The emerald-dotted combs holding up her hair glittered and matched her earrings and necklace.

The lace of the gown floated from high up her neck to down her chest in what would have been a very sexy décolletage were the lace more transparent. But he understood her choice for modesty; the scars on her skin (and elsewhere) were still fading.

As Virgil was about to present her to Patrick, he gave a small tight smile and a curt nod. "You'd better take good care of her."

"Always," Patrick promised.

She gave her foster father a kiss on his cheek, causing him to blush. Then she allowed Patrick to lead her to the priest.

"I love you, my beautiful lady," he said softly.

She actually blushed and looked at Father Gabruda who nodded with permission.

"I love you too, Patrick."

The priest grinned at both of them and then at the congregation.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…"

* * *

**To be continued...unless you don't like a completed character arc. Jane is changed in the next chapter because his mighty brain needs continual challenge. If you didn't like Chapter 34, please don't read the Epilogue. Just consider this chapter to be the "Happily Ever After" and mentally tag "The End" to the last sentence in this chapter. You'll be happier. Trust me. :-)**


	36. EPILOGUE

**_My very special _****_THANK YOU_****_ to Cumberland River Relic for his help with finishing this. His unwavering support through my 'dry heaves' period helped me not give up._**

* * *

_EPILOGUE I never have, currently don't and never will own The Mentalist characters. I'm not making nuthin' off these writings I'm posting._

* * *

_**Seven years later.**_

Patrick set his favorite blue tea cup and saucer on the small table and settled onto his old friend the brown leather sofa. With a sigh, he opened the reinforced envelope marked "Medical Files" and pulled out the collection of loose papers. He gave them a cursory glance and tossed the stack on the floor before checking the inside of the envelope again. There was a light brown stripe printed on one surface.

He brought the game controller off the back of the sofa and shoved it into the envelope before punching up a pillow and reclining.

The flat screen TV on the wall glowed to life, displaying password prompts disguised as a list of questions. Patrick waited until the hidden sensors in the console conveyed the file from the envelope strip into his computer and then answered only Question #4 per the schedule stored in his memory palace. When granted access, he whistled low under his breath at the flood of files. His CIA overlords were really working him today.

Dammit! Last time that happened, it was the famous conspiracy against the US Embassy in Bulgaria. They'd caught it just in time; the plot was foiled just as the Neo-Nazi terrorists were gathering for their initial assault using dirty bombs. However, the CIA never successfully infiltrated the controlling body which had also attacked the British embassy in Hungary two weeks before using conventional explosives. This might be further intelligence about that group.

Bringing the keyboard from under the sofa, Patrick opened the first document and began to study it when little feet pattered into the Relaxation Room.

"Daddy! Cartoon time?"

His three-year-old daughter Zahara stopped on the other side of the coffee table, staring at him. She still wore her favorite Scooby Doo napping gown he'd put on her but she'd put her pants on under it, backwards at that. Under one arm she had her striped pink blanket that she affectionately called her 'cushy'. Under the other arm was a raggedy, one-eyed teddy bear he'd named for her as Miles Thorsen, although the joke was only appreciated by him and Teresa.

Zahara rubbed her cushy over her sleepy, brown face before her large black eyes locked onto his, large and full of hope. He couldn't help but smile at the way static electricity was making her shiny black hair float as a halo around her small head. Obviously she had been lying on her day cot where he'd put her, but tossing and turning instead of sleeping.

"Cartoons?" she asked again.

"Peanut, Daddy's working. You know the drill: I work now, you nap now."

"It's cartoon time, though."

Patrick rolled his eyes and touched the temporary scramble button.

"Nap time," he said, setting the keyboard on the table.

"Cartoon time."

"Nap time."

"Cartoon time."

He stared unblinking for a moment before saying, "Time-out time."

The little girl shook her head and stepped back.

"Then you must agree that it's nap time." He waved her closer. "Come here, my little peanut."

A big grin came to Zahara's face as she crossed to where he lay. He knew he shouldn't do it, but just once more he would let their daughter take her afternoon nap lying on top of him, despite Teresa's warning that their smart little girl was taking unfair advantage of that soft spot in his heart. He countered the warning by mentioning how successful _he_ was in taking unfair advantage with the soft spot in Teresa's heart and how little she seemed to mind. The memory of his wife's eye-roll put a grin on his face.

It would be all right. Once Zahara was sound asleep, he could reopen the CIA info and continue to analyze it. And if not, he'd pull another all-nighter. Wouldn't be the first time. Sometimes the intensity of effort was good for honing his brain to a particular task instead of the light cruising it usually did.

Not that he'd let the CIA know how easy this stuff was. They'd just demand more from him if they ever found _that_ out.

Patrick grunted softly as Zahara plopped on his chest, squirming into position. She was getting bigger all the time. In the year since they'd adopted her, she'd sprouted like a greenhouse orchid.

_Better food, better water, better home_. He doubted that she remembered the Eritrean village where she was born, although the horrific memories might resurface when she was older. It was one of Teresa's strongest dreads.

It was definitely cause for Patrick's current occasional nightmares. The CIA had sent him on one of the rare site visits in western Eritrea and eastern Sudan. On the way, he and the escorting team came under fire from invading militia. The men took cover in a shot-up hovel, only to find nine dead bodies strewn around the single-room building.

And one eighteen-month-old girl, very much unhurt but covered with the blood of others. She moved away from everyone in the CIA group until she retreated into a corner, trembling and staring. In the fourteen hours the men were trapped and awaiting for rescue, Patrick gently earned the little girl's trust with soft words and the two stale circus peanuts he had in his pocket. After that she wouldn't let him go, and Patrick talked the CIA operatives into bringing her along when 'the cavalry' arrived. Zahara ended up in a UN orphanage until Teresa and Patrick successfully completed the adoption process for her that took six nerve-wracking months.

"I love you, peanut," he whispered. She lifted her head and grinned that cheeky grin at him. "To sleep. That's the deal."

It took a few minutes but soon the reassuring circle rubs on her back and his deep, steady breathing lulled her to sleep. With care, he got his files opened again and spent the next hour studying the data and making the connections. He made mental notes to share with his contact Agent Campbell and then shut down the equipment.

"Wake up, peanut," he said gently, rubbing her back again. "Mommy will be here in a little while with Aunt Ae Cha and Jinny. Then it will be cartoon time, okay?"

The little girl woke slowly and calmly, a marked change from how she behaved when she first arrived. Sleepily she followed him to the kitchenette at the back of the store and patiently stood while he ran a washcloth over her face.

A buzzer for the front door sounded, indicating a visitor. Patrick pointed to a kitchen chair where Zahara obediently sat down and stared with mild alarm.

"I'll be right back, my dear," he told her, placing his finger briefly to his lips.

A quick glance at a security monitor indicated a single visitor, a woman.

He passed down the hall and paused in the Relaxation Room. He gave it a quick perusal to be certain everything was put away and that the room looked simply like a consulting room. The service bell on the counter chimed softly. He plastered on his showman smile and passed through the steel door into the reception area.

A plump woman stood, wearing a waterproof jacket two sizes too big, worn-out jeans, and well-used hiking boots. Her formerly blonde hair was peppered with gray and in need of a trim. Her bangs had once been dyed bright red but were now faded to a pinkish orange.

_Hypnosis seeker_, Patrick thought to himself. _Weight loss. Suddenly realized that her poor diet and lack of exercise are catching up to her age._ He took in her overall physique, clothing and bearing. Formerly very active. Secretary spread – now spends a lot of time at a desk.

"Yes, ma'am? How can I help you today?"

She turned with a polite smile on her face, which slipped a moment when she took in his appearance. Then the smile was back, although the eyes maintained a hard edge.

Ah, cynical. A salesman recognizing a salesman. Understands how looks can be misleading.

"Hello," she said, holding out her hand. He shook it, returning her firm grip with his own. "I've… I've been trying to adjust some bad habits but it's been difficult. I just wanted to find out what you do here and how much it costs."

He knew exactly what the bad habit was, but it was best to skirt around these things initially.

"You don't smell like cigarettes, so I'm assuming you're not trying to stop smoking, and your nails are beautiful, so it's not nail-biting."

She started to interject, but he held up one hand to stop her.

"One moment. I just need to check on my daughter." Surreptitiously he moved his hip towards a hidden sensor, allowing the key in his pocket to release the electronic lock before he opened the steel door. "Zahara, my dear. What are you up to?"

His daughter knew this to be the code for her to relax. Patrick may have resented his own father drilling him about the psychic boy wonder act passwords, but at least Patrick understood why he needed to subject his daughter to training on how to behave in the presence of a CIA operative. Not that anything had ever happened in the past three years that Patrick had worked with the CIA, but it never hurt to be cautious., especially where his beloved child was concerned.

Zahara came skipping down the hall, past the Relaxation Room (where Patrick treated real clients as well as analyzed sensitive data) and up to her father with her usual grin on her face. He let her into the reception room.

"Sorry," he told the visitor. "I'm watching my daughter for a few hours today."

The woman smiled sincerely at Zahara and said hello. His daughter nodded and waved.

"Why don't you go color in your circus book?" he suggested to his daughter.

Zahara settled at the receptionist desk and found the book and crayons under the counter. Patrick looked at the woman again.

"Now what is it I can help you with?"

"Well…your sign says you hypnotize people? I seem to be having problems dropping a few pounds."

Patrick stepped behind the counter and made a show of checking his calendar. It was unnecessary since he knew without looking what cover story slots were made available by his Federal overseers.

"I can help with that," he said, flipping the pages forward. "Usually it only takes two sessions with truly determined people. When can you come in?"

Actually it took one, but he needed to maintain his cover story that he worked as an independent hypnotherapist. Establishing professional reputation was part of that.

"Uhm…Thursday afternoon?" she asked.

"I have an opening from 2:30 to 3:15, if that will work."

The woman smiled in relief and nodded. Patrick quoted the price and had her fill out paperwork while he studied her mannerisms. Abused as a child, very mild autism, married, no kids, stubborn, artistic to the point of detriment and a bit of a day-dreamer, very independent thinker – hence the comfy hiking boots when she wasn't actually hiking. Yes, if handled properly, this would be a successful case. He was tempted to insert post-hypnotic suggestion at that moment to get the woman started but he didn't.

"Goodbye, Martha. See you on the 12th at 2:30."

Martha waved to his little girl before shaking his hand again. It left a good impression on Patrick. Soft spot for children because she's a bit of a child herself.

As she exited, Teresa came through, dressed in her professional office attire, looking every inch the dignified director of the California Bureau of Investigation…

…Until she saw her daughter behind the counter. Her eyebrows rose, her lips curved up, a sparkle came to her eyes, driving away the stress and responsibilities of the day.

"There's my little girl!"

"MOMMY!"

Zahara ran to Teresa, launching herself into her mother's arms. The little girl loved her Daddy but Mommy was truly special. Patrick wouldn't have it any other way.

"How was preschool this morning?" Teresa asked, holding out her attaché for him to take. After he did, she picked up the little girl and twirled her around.

"Good! We learned about colors today."

"Oh yeah? And what did you talk about?"

"The teacher asked us what our favorite color is and why."

Patrick opened the steel door and held it while his family passed through to the Relaxation Room. He said, "Tell Mommy what you told the teacher."

Teresa sat down and released Zahara who jumped on the sofa once before plopping down.

"I…said… that I like green cuz Mommy's eyes are green."

"Aww, thank you, my little girl!"

"Do you want to go get the picture you made? Remember where we put it?"

As she ran out of the room, Patrick sat next to his wife and kissed her deeply. Maybe it was because of the bad omen the multitude of CIA files represented, but he missed her more than usual that day.

They separated at the sound of the little feet and Teresa got very excited about the stick-figure Mommy with an oversized circular head adorned with two big green dots and crooked line smile.

"Where is Jinny and Aunt Ae Cha?" Zahara asked.

"Aunt Ae Cha had a very big project today so Jinny and her brother are staying with the sitter. When she and Uncle Kimball are back in town, we'll have them over for supper, okay?"

"Pizza?"

"Maybe. Or maybe we can invite Uncle Wayne, Aunt Grace, Ben, Lucy and Matthew as well. We can have bit of a party and make them something really special."

"Daddy's lalaza?"

"That's what we're having tonight." Patrick smiled at his daughter's pronunciation of 'lasagna'. "I made it while you were at school."

"Ooo, Daddy makes great lasagna," Teresa said.

"And vanilla ice cream!"

Teresa lightly patted Patrick's leg. "What has your father been teaching you? I thought chocolate was—"

She was interrupted by a muffled ringing that made her look at him with slight panic in her eyes.

"The Bat Phone," he said softly, trying to look apologetic and sympathetic at the same time.

It was the secure phone that Agent Campbell used to discuss urgent case details. It was not usually a good sign when he called.

"I have to get that, my dear," he whispered.

Teresa put her hands on his cheeks and kissed him again, but that was the extent of her reaction. Always the professional.

"C'mon, my little girl. Daddy has a phone call."

When they'd cleared the room, he closed the door to the hall. He brought the phone up from where he stored it on the floor behind a side table and slid his finger on the unlocking sensor. He hated that phone. It was so melodramatic and 'James Bond' like.

"Double Oh For Nothing," he said like he was answering the phone at a pizzeria. "Leave a message at the tone."

They may be his overseers, but that didn't mean he was going to kowtow to them.

The voice on the other end didn't even pause. "Mr. Jane, this is Agent Campbell. We have a serious development in our project. Please meet your contact at your assigned rendezvous."

"Do I need my overnight bag?"

"Your liaison has that handled for you, including your passport."

This wasn't just bad. This was worse than he thought.

"Do I need to bring the envelope?"

"Please destroy it. New files have been prepared." The phone went dead.

_Shit._

He hung up and retrieved the reinforced envelope marked "Medical Files". He unlocked the cabinet and shoved the papers into the slot, listening to it grind and mulch.

_Damn._

He entered the kitchen where his family sat at the table. After giving Zahara a soft kiss on her head, he settled into a chair.

"So?"

"So… the lasagna is all set to go. Just put in a 375 oven for 45 minutes. Let it rest ten minutes before serving." He paused, looking at the table. "I don't know what the work is. This is different from before."

When he brought his gaze up to her, she forced a slight smile onto her lips.

"I'll save you a piece of lasagna."

God, he loved her. Despite what it meant to her and their daughter, she wasn't making this as difficult as she could. He felt like stomping his feet and cursing and throwing a tantrum the likes of which his three-year-old wouldn't even recognize, but instead he smiled.

"Thank you. I'll be back as soon as possible. I'm sure it's nothing."

"No, nothing at all."

Guilt seized him as he recognized how this would have to be handled. It would be unfair to subject either of them to a drawn out parting.

He took Teresa's hand and rose to his feet, leading her toward the hall. "Wait there a second, peanut." Out of view of Zahara, he took his wife in his arms and they kissed passionately, urgently, like it was the last embrace they'd share for a very long time.

And it just may be. Last time it was just an overnight trip to Washington, but two years ago it was nearly three months in northern Africa. How could he know for certain?

With reluctance they broke off, still holding each other tightly.

"Teresa…I love you," he whispered. "You know I don't want to go."

"You are saving lives, Patrick. You're making a safer world for Zahara and the Cho children. Ben and the Rigsby twins. For all of us. If it weren't for that selfless fact, I'd probably go all 'harpy' on you and lock you into that Relaxation Room of yours."

He separated from her enough that she could see his smile.

"Listen, roomie, you've never gone 'harpy' on me, and when it comes to dedication to the public good, I've never met a more selfless person."

"'Roomie'," she said with a chuckle. "Actually, you mean 'slave-driver', don't you, house-husband?"

"Actually I mean 'soulmate'," he said before kissing her lips lightly. "_Actually,_ I mean the person who mended my broken heart by giving me something real to live for."

Her eyes swam with tears, instantly absorbing his proclamation of what she was to him. His words shouldn't have surprised her so much. She knew how he felt.

"By that definition, you're my soulmate too, Patrick."

"Goodbye, my love."

After a struggle to get her emotions checked into place, she kissed him lightly and stepped back.

"Be safe, Patrick. Goodbye."

He stepped down the hall and grabbed his suit jacket from the hanger by the door. A glance back showed her slowly turning to care for their daughter, and he was instantly filled with pride.

Then he stepped out of his office and into the gray-skied Sacramento afternoon.

He'd be back. She'd _bring_ him back, just as she always did.

* * *

_**NOT to be continued! **_

_**Finally!**_

* * *

_**Hope you have enjoyed this story. It's been quite an adventure for me.**_


End file.
